We’re Back Baby!
Well, what more is there to say? If you were present, you are probably zip-lipped with embarrassment that you attended. Some most likely stumbled into the misfortune of having some would-be friend waste their time with an obsolete summary of the night’s events. Others just went to the bar and washed it all away with a sea of overpriced beer and tacky shots. Another successful showing of art in New York.
Why all the negativity? Certainly it couldn’t have been all that bad. Possibly true. There was the late-night trip to Midtown, my brother and myself posing as lighting contractors for admittance into the Waldorf-Astoria service entrance, up the elevator crowded with tired eyes, get off at the Third Floor, or was it the Fourth? stepping out into the glass and stainless steel spectacle that was the kitchen of the Grand Ballroom, in an irrational but exhilarating attempt at procuring a tray of half-sipped and lipstick-stained Champagne glasses. Then there was the chase down several flights of steep stairs and I know I made it to the bottom but it gets fuzzy after my encounter with the doorman who I am pretty sure used to wrestle as the Undertaker. Cleans up real nice. And of course my brother gets away Scot free, tray and all, and refuses to explain how, which immediately sends up some red flags of suspicion, except that the tray has the hotel emblem right in the middle of it, and the glasses we drank out of at the opening were etched with the old ‘W’ & ‘A’. Disturbing all over the place.
We also cannot forget the destruction of the $50,000 computerized router. Or the subsequent two trips to Bellevue Hospital. We wish we could forget the waiting room. We definitely are certain not to forget that my name is Davis Patterson, and sure I have insurance, I just left my ID at home but I have always lived at 123 West 69th St, NY, NY 10023 and I have no allergies to penicillin or any pain medications that may need to be, hopefully, oh please oh please, prescribed. We don’t remember being discharged.
As much as my memory can muster, that must be the trip to New York in the nutshell that is a bottle of Demerol. Yeah, whatever, we did what we had to do every opioid-influenced step of the way. Toes get stepped on, eyes get gouged, Champagne don’t finish itself and it is pointless showing artwork in New York if you are not willing to lose a toe, an eye, or in my case, both.
It’s good to be home.