"Phil on Christmas Morning, 2008"I was half-asleep on Christmas Eve in a studio out in Rockaway Park . Phil came in the door. I looked at the digital alarm clock, 4:15 AM. "Here, Darling". He threw an extra long Snickers on the bed next to me as if he was throwing a bundle of hard cash, after a grueling night shift. He brought me home a Snickers bar every night since I had arrived two days ago.
"Where were you?" We could have been a married couple after sharing a one room studio apartment for only a couple of days.
"Out at the bar," he said.
His eyes always look downward, making the rare eye contact. He scanned the floor. With a massive hand engulfing his skull, he began to scratch and swoop his hair back, the same way only men with short hair cuts are privy to do in this world. The same soulful gesture you might imagine Marlon Brandon doing in a moment of confusion or defeat in a movie from the fifties.
"Which bar?". I already felt like I had missed out on something fun.
"Kerry Hill." "I ran into Trish and we ended up talking for a bit."
I always wondered how people can spend hours in a bar talking to the same people all the time without some purpose. My life has been bound to purpose, reason and without both, socializing can seem like falling into a busted fishnet. I envied Phil and everyone else who could go out and banter the nights away, while I was white knuckling scores of "to do" lists on Christmas Eve.
I tore into the Snickers with my teeth and before he could even turn around to look at me from the kitchenette against the opposite wall, I had gobbled it down. I felt the caramel and chocolate leftovers stuck to my teeth. I would wait for the early morning sun, get up to brush my teeth in the shared bathroom, in between, his apartment and his neighbors.
After a couple of nights, camping out here, shooting in the day and watching Turner Classics while convalescing late evenings and mornings, I felt at home here. I almost always feel more at home in other people's homes than in my own, especially, when they are not at home.
Dear Phil,
Thanks for letting me spend the night.
Thanks for buying me diet cokes and snicker bars.
Thanks for making me a beautiful eggs over medium sandwich on wheat toast.
And hours of Bogart to watch on two separate televisions facing one another on opposing sides of your studio.
And most of all a hide-out during the holidays.
With affection,
Juliana
"Where were you?" We could have been a married couple after sharing a one room studio apartment for only a couple of days.
"Out at the bar," he said.
His eyes always look downward, making the rare eye contact. He scanned the floor. With a massive hand engulfing his skull, he began to scratch and swoop his hair back, the same way only men with short hair cuts are privy to do in this world. The same soulful gesture you might imagine Marlon Brandon doing in a moment of confusion or defeat in a movie from the fifties.
"Which bar?". I already felt like I had missed out on something fun.
"Kerry Hill." "I ran into Trish and we ended up talking for a bit."
I always wondered how people can spend hours in a bar talking to the same people all the time without some purpose. My life has been bound to purpose, reason and without both, socializing can seem like falling into a busted fishnet. I envied Phil and everyone else who could go out and banter the nights away, while I was white knuckling scores of "to do" lists on Christmas Eve.
I tore into the Snickers with my teeth and before he could even turn around to look at me from the kitchenette against the opposite wall, I had gobbled it down. I felt the caramel and chocolate leftovers stuck to my teeth. I would wait for the early morning sun, get up to brush my teeth in the shared bathroom, in between, his apartment and his neighbors.
After a couple of nights, camping out here, shooting in the day and watching Turner Classics while convalescing late evenings and mornings, I felt at home here. I almost always feel more at home in other people's homes than in my own, especially, when they are not at home.
Dear Phil,
Thanks for letting me spend the night.
Thanks for buying me diet cokes and snicker bars.
Thanks for making me a beautiful eggs over medium sandwich on wheat toast.
And hours of Bogart to watch on two separate televisions facing one another on opposing sides of your studio.
And most of all a hide-out during the holidays.
With affection,
Juliana
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