Part XIX : It Could Only Happen in Plattsburgh or NYC

No Pity at the Cave

It was May, 1990 and the era at The Cave was coming to an end. My fault, I had lost my mind. For real, I lucked into a mental illness that completely unraveled my life. Losing my job was nowhere near the half of it, and since I was leaving, there was no desire to go in search of a replacement.

Now I was not suffering in silence but that’s not as encouraging as it sounds. I was not walking around in distress and attempting to mask my illness. I was so mad at the inconceivable nature of my misfortune that I voiced my suffering for everyone to see, and it typically began with the words of my therapist.

I was so lost that I asked my therapist the same question over and over. How will I know when I’m better?

Her reply : “When the fighting stops.”

Yeah, big help, and as I took to the streets of NYC with no end in sight, I would yell launch into my hopeless tirade. “When the fighting stops, when the fighting stops, what the hell does that mean?”

I’m lucky I didn’t get choked to death on the subway.

But dialed back at the cave, my mumblings and despondency couldn’t be missed. Not so bad, until my roommates saw my daily ritual one morning. This had Steve turning to Matt in semi-grave concern. “He’s going to kill us in our sleep.”

I was suicidal not homicidal.

Even so, we continued with standard operating procedure at our subterranean dwelling. Ping Pong, our own version of indoor racquetball and wiffle ball, and since it was spring, the mini hoop was set up in the courtyard.

Sounds kind of quaint but you can see the seriousness in the picture above. So the last week under the lease, Steve threw down with the same words. “Rich, let's keep your mind off your mind.”

Good idea, we played by ones to 21, and forget Charles Oakley and Anthony Mason, 90s basketball might have started at 441 E 83rd street. Four games in four nights, we went to the death, which means Steve had the edge.

Still, I held my own and reached at least 18 or 19 a night without fail. But no better, and the bell sounding on the last night, my resolve refused to let Steve walk away an undefeated champion.

I muscled my way to a 20-14 lead, and I was feeling it. Big mistake, Steve simply dug in harder. “I’m not letting you win,” he assured, while taking no consideration of the real world.

In other words, I still had eight years of a struggle that I had no idea whether I would live through. Too bad - did Michael Jordan take pity on Patrick Ewing, on Reggie Miller or Charles Barkley?

Nope.

Eight straight points sent me to defeat and there was no respite from the real world. Equal consideration, I guess that provided a glimmer of hope for my survival.

Ok, that’s a load of crap. But I would have expected no less, and that’s why we’re still laughing about it today.

The Girl with the Shorts

The first in the "girl with" series was, the Girl with the Eyes, and she sat perched in my Music 101 class. A required elective, the teacher openly acknowledged the necessity of skipping class for a bunch of non musicians. He told us to take the three cuts and not to worry. So at the end of the year, I realized I did not miss a single class. I couldn’t take a chance, I had to see that radiating blue and definitely noticed the three times she was out.

Of course, I never spoke to her and didn’t even find out her name until I saw the 1985 yearbook in the fall. I guess I was laying the groundwork, because being mum was my only outlet.

Nonetheless, the first in the series was followed by the last. The Girl with the Shorts - she appeared out my window in September 1985 at 92 Court. I actually started to jump up and down because I caught a glimpse of her the previous May.

I was completely blown away and introducing myself was not an option. On the other hand, I had little doubt that more than serendipity would play a part in actual words. One morning she'd walk out of her apartment at the same time I did, and I would be in my element.

Never happened but very often we were walking in different directions - and in a good way. Everyday, she set up in Late Night Study, and I never failed to pitch my tent.

Of course, no one ever sat still in the college center, and hedging fate in my direction, I’d get up at the opportune time. Thus, the moment always came when we were walking toward each other, but there was an unexpected result of our convergence. Her primary identifying feature took a backseat.

See the girl with the eyes, she’d say hello, and adding the deep blue to her smile and the tsunami of blonde hair, my heart would go a flutter. Sheer hysteria took hold. So much so that there were times I had to look away because I could not bear to face her.

That said, actually talking to her now was out of the question. But talking about her was another matter.

In fact, she was all I talked about, and while that may sound boring to everyone in earshot, the inspiration never made for better content. The main beneficiary was my long time roommate, Bruce. We’d been going to sleep together for four years, and the night time chatter was probably the best part of Plattsburgh.

This was a whole other level, though. Unfortunately, the laughter didn’t loosen me up in the least. Inside and out of Late Night Study, the smile was doubled edged. Each instance of arrhythmia moved me further from ever being able to articulate a hello.

Still, the question had to be asked, and Bruce posed one night. “Why don’t you just go up to her and ask her to a semiformal or something?”

If you’re paying attention, the answer is pretty obvious. So I did not hesitate to reply with a logic that was undeniable.

“Yes… Yes is the worst thing she can say.”

Yeah, that one almost blew the roof off 92 Court. Even so, the uproar still didn’t get me any closer to a conversation. No problem, all my talk traveled back to her, and with the information in hand, she abruptly made the introductions.

I think I’m still embarrassed, and sounds like pretty good subject matter for the next story.