My lack of posting has been pretty conspicuous of late and therefore I now attempt to tell the tale that has otherwise went silently:
New Years quickly approached.
As in all Holidays, times are heightened; peoples emotions become a rising mercury, and more so, aggravated in the close and chaotic confines of New York City. I had once again made a leave of acting after a very lean summer and a spotty Fall. This was the obstacle that commanded my sole focus of resolving financial concerns. I thought I had lucked upon a good temp gig with a New Years Eve company, just to bridge into the new calender, and spent the ensuing weeks working up my customer service skills and preparing for the Big Night.
I had been assigned to a midtown location as a VIP Host. Lucky Spenders would have a warm and cozy time indoors, with the luxury of a guaranteed spot inside the highly guarded gates where people could see the Drop itself. A great deal of money was paid for tickets--some shelling out five hundred dollars or more per spot. This would be an incredible mix of the wealthy, the influential, and the international, and mostly go-ol'-fashioned sightseers; many investing over a year's worth of planning--thousands of dollars--for the one second when the year would round up a number.
But from the moment I walked in there was the hint of trouble.
The place was a bit... humble. It was clean, but cramped. The room was blank and unwelcoming, with only an hour to liven up the place before the first guests arrived. No one from the upper management told us which of the 40+ unique ticket types would correspond for our event. No one was assigned for restocking food and beverage. Actually, we didn't even know where those goods had been put. There were no TVs in the place (as was advertised). The DJ was not present (also a selling point marketed for this location) and would never show up the entire night; instead we used our VIP Smart Phone Playlists as the sonic entertainment.
And, most importantly, no one had told us that our permit for the outdoor, guaranteed, reserved, this-is-really-why-you-paid-us-cash-money-so-you-could-see-the-silly-ball had not been obtained.
In New York, if you have ever had to work with the NYPD while managing an event, they are not the Finest to deal with when you don't have the proper paperwork.
(Let that sink in for a moment. I'll wait.)
...
(Back to the event:) People are now pouring in from all directions. Hundreds inflate our meager spacing. There is little ventilation. The forests of balloons in the main spaces tie into each other like a giant net. The crowd is tangled, hot, dehydrated, and quickly becoming inebriated.
And with the permit crisis plummeting to disaster with every Countdown Second, I found myself alone to "manage" a floor of 150+ VIP participants. All the other staff had receded like a tide to the floor below--at least this is what I would find out later on. By this point, the party had been going on for at least two hours.
I weaved and squeezed my way downstairs (which took at least 20-30 minutes through the masses), desperate for some reinforcements and a little help, when I heard saw outside my long-missing manager, pleading with a police Captain, a Captain who decided to take his portable loudspeaker out and tell everyone that had a working pair of ears that we had RIPPED THEM OFF. And that everyone was now to leave. Fourty-five minutes out from the end of Countdown.
You could feel the room quiver in exclamation. Then, slowly breathe out a growing, growling, outrage. It was like being in a room soaked in jet fuel and every person was about to light a match.
Above me, still relatively unaware, was a packed, hot, sweaty, smoldering group of well-to-do and well-meaning adventurers. Many of them already bundled up and boiling in winter-clothed lines that were already suppose to be out the door.
The chorus of protestation was starting to swell; at this point we were all on our own. Clean-up was swift and tense.
My group got lucky: our small band missed the near all-out riot that happened on our heels; coworkers told us stories of roving bands of upset customers that nearly jumped several staff members, or plain spat on, along with other happy scenes.
Furious and defeated, I grabbed my backpack from the main area, left the scene without brushing into the congregating mobs, got on the train heading home, and hoped I hadn't been followed. A few minutes into the tunnel for Jersey: It was over.
I was now out of a job again. I was emotionally, mentally, and spiritually drained. I had a deadline to be off-book for a show in the near future, with no future prospects going forward, AND I WASN'T EVEN LIVING IN NEW YORK. After a year of sputtering, near-misses, poor-paying jobs, and other dead ends, I looked through the throng of bright, satisfied faces. I really did wish to be in their shoes.
The thought of 2013 felt like a Sentencing. If this was an omen for the year to come, I would hop in the nearest cryogenic chamber and wait for 2014 to save me. My Journey was SUPPOSED to land me off-Broadway gigs and TV roles and make me a known and respected actor through the performing world. Even the five year plan I wrote in College said so! I wasnt sure how I would fall sleep when I got back to my bed.
By overwhelming temptation, I kept thinking about the New Year, and wondered what I was actually doing when 2013 arrived. I always remembered those movies that abruptly cut into what should be some other happening: in those flickering moments, how did I "bring it in"?
Believe it or not, I was trapped on 42nd street and 8th, unable to make it back to HQ for my bags and Evacuate across the Hudson. We looked up, and found ourselves staring at this strange tower that looked powered up in a way that would blast a hole in time for the DeLorean to cruise through. It was a mere pen point, so tiny: but there was the Ball!
We were at least a good ten blocks closer than we would have been for work, witness the main event, in the centrifuge of arguably the biggest party in the world, and I was going to get paid for it. That is how I began Twenty and Thirteen.
The earlier nightmare was a consistent summary to a very hard 2012. Perhaps, this double-edged omen had merely cut a line in the sand. The step before this divide had summarized substantial hardships. The idea of my struggles birthing equally sizable blessings gave me a Buddha like exhale. An actor shouldn't be surprised, but how crazy is it to end such a night like that!?
Perhaps the fight to Live well makes us appreciate the power of the Phoenix. We all, in our dearest endeavors, cannot rise until the ashes of older excuses, and unproductive methods, are burned away, leaving only the diamond-hard brilliance of truth in our own living selves.
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Except for a few edits, this is what I scribbled down a few months ago. My writer's block has unwrenched itself, thank goodness.
In review: the Prophecy progresses. After a year of short-term answers, I have a steady supporting job to hold me up through the summer. I did a show a few weeks after this "episode"; where I got my first review, and boy was it a good one. Many fond thanks again to the wonderful cast and crew of Crossing Paths in Washington Square, who are all up to even greater and grander things. That was a show good for an actor's soul in a business that loves to feed and fester upon the passionate.
Quietly in the background, is a larger project that is gaining strong and steady growth. I look forward to sharing that with all of you. That, however, will require a little more time to reveal.
This year is a defining moment in my transition.
Stay tuned.
