A New York State of Mind

Gazing onto East Seventh Street four stories below, people look like figurines. Some walk their dogs, others carry packages. One couple holding hands stops to steal a kiss. I watch as he draws her close, gently brushing the hair from her eyes. Can’t see her reaction but imagine her smile.

August in New York. Two proper nouns that never go well together. The haze and humidity swirl in a stifling blend that could lull anyone to sleep, if not for the intolerable heat. Expected the city to be a ghost town, but people are out. Buying produce at Second and Seventh, stopping for a bagel, going places.

It’s 11 a.m. Saturday, Dennis’s new apartment. With the windows closed, walking in feels like entering a sauna. Heavy on wood with a Beatnik mystique, the vacant studio is a study in contrasts, like Dennis himself. It’s barely 500 square feet in size, but pull up a chair you could draft a novel. Has the feel of a writer’s pad, or a musician’s. Big enough for friends to gather ’round a guitar. Can almost hear the strumming. 

Three narrow windows line the far wall. Standing at one of them, my eyes find a young man in a plaid fedora. Watch him weave through the crowd until he’s out of view and think how easy it would be to kill an afternoon here. Dark brown window frames contrast starkly with clean white walls. The sun streams in just as white. That’s my favorite part, the sun, the oak.

Back then, Dennis thrived on creating, he was good at it, too. In the new apartment, he envisioned a loft for his bed, green carpeting on the walls, elevated bookshelves. Somehow he’d make the place look like a forest. He promised to send pictures, I pretended to believe him. 

Peering onto the street, realizing how lonely it would feel to live in New York. Or maybe that was me, right then. Visiting was a mistake. Dennis was stressed about the move and probably my presence. Should have listened to my instincts and stayed home. Suggested as much on the phone a week earlier. Said maybe another time would be better. I’d heard the heaviness in his voice, so I said it. Then he said “Don’t be silly,” and the girl in me believed him. 

Besides, I really loved Dennis. Loved him in the way you accept someone for all they are. And though there was little proof, it felt like he cared about me. We were polar opposites. That was the fun of it. I strove for perfection, never measuring up to my own high standards. He wore his flaws like an extravagant fur coat, out in the open for all to see. 

Short in stature with a larger-than-life personality, Dennis had wild black hair to match his wild ways. He had this fiery charisma going on that I found magnetic. On our second encounter, in November 2003, we met up in L.A. I was there on a girls’ trip with Sue and Molly. At 10 p.m., Dennis careens into the drive. We watch from the living room as the huge Mercedes pulls onto the front lawn in dramatic fashion. I remember laughing incredulously, worrying the tires would leave tread marks. When I step into the yard, Dennis leaps out of the car, wraps me in a bear hug, spins me around. His every action is oversized, like that Mercedes. That’s the appeal. Because just as he’s oversized in neuroses, he’s oversized in affection. I’d always dreamed of sitting by the fire with him, talking about life. In his East Village apartment that hot August day, I sensed that would never happen. It made me sad. Something had been lost, and I didn’t know where.

I’m standing where the coffee table would be when the dizziness strikes for the last time. For a moment, I want to die. Behind me, Dennis rummages. Turn just enough to glimpse him in the hall. He’s about to bring a stack of boxes down four flights of stairs. I have the instinct to help, then I’m on the floor. With his back to me, Dennis doesn’t see me lying there, and I don’t want him to. “I’ll be right down!” I shout.

What a lie. 

One month earlier, this had happened when Dennis visited Chicago. At the Lincoln Park Zoo that day, we were sitting on a park bench when the dizziness hit, couldn’t even stand. We spent an ungodly amount of time on the bench, ogling baby wolves. 

I went home to rest, Dennis went to Best Buy and surprised me with a stereo. He was generous like that. With his money, but more, with himself. He gave from his heart, and his passion was both an asset and a detriment. “Out there” the slightest injustice could set him off, like seeing someone litter. “In here” he could be tender enough to leave a honeysuckle on a pillow.

In New York, I wanted it to be that way again. Instead, stress dominated (his and mine). By August, it had been five consecutive months of dizzy spells. Lying on my back, the wood floor glistening in the sun, I knew the dizziness would last for 30 minutes. Couldn’t exactly take a half-hour “bathroom break” could I?

Waited for Dennis to make the turn at the landing then started the slow crawl across the open floor. The apartment felt so much larger on my hands and knees, and the floral J. Crew skirt was out of place in this moment. A short while earlier, Dennis had said he would get rid of the stove to make room in the kitchen. As I crawled, tried to imagine a life without cooking. Sitting atop the staircase, my mind shifted to more pressing matters as I pondered how to get down. It felt stupid to try and just as dumb not to. With my knees trembling, I wanted to forget the whole thing. So what if I stay up here? 

Guess I didn’t want a 30-minute episode to overshadow a three-day visit. When you’re used to being sick, you crave any chance to live like you’re not. So I tackled the stairs the only way I knew how. On my butt, one narrow step at a time. Wouldn’t do it again. But at 33, inaction was the greater of the evils. Looking down upon those stairs, weighing my options, a lot crossed my mind. But only one thought broke through. “I have to try.”

It was harrowing, the getting down. Can’t fathom how I did it. The winding landings were anything but a shoo-in, and I had to navigate four flights of steep, wooden stairs barely wide enough to hold my rear end. The scent of turn-of-the-century cedar followed me down, and I remembered finding that old jewelry box in Grandma’s attic. For a split second, I smiled.

At the bottom, Dennis is on the street loading the car. He spots me sitting on the steps, pretending to be waiting. Must have thought I was lazy as hell. I didn’t care. Too busy figuring how to stand. 

“You ready?” he asks.

“I’m hungry,” I lie. “Would you mind if we grabbed a bite?”

We eat at the South American restaurant next door. Empanadas at 11:30 a.m. I’m not the least bit hungry and neither is he. I’ll never forget that meal, though. Never had another aura again.