Introduction
by wb
Early August 2009.
It is just a few minutes past midnight… a few minutes since the young woman in my hotel room turned twenty-one years old. Now she wants to buy her first legal drink before we call it a night. It’s been way more than a few minutes since I turned twenty-one years old. Thirty-three years more than a few minutes if you need to know.
Now, I’m about to escort this nymph-like beauty upstairs to a club on the top floor of this classic, but no-longer trendy, hotel on Union Square. She is tall – the kind of tall that pushes right up to the limit of too much leg and not enough torso. Her form is reminiscent of Venus de Milo, fully armed. She is wearing an unusual combination of retro 50’s chic and contemporary Goth – like a twisted combination of Donna Reed and Elphaba from Wicked – without the the green skin. She is the embodiment of a of love I once believed I could never have in my life.
She pulls her driver’s license out of her wallet, drops it in my shirt pocket and tells me it’s time to go.
My relationship with her is curious… and complex. Despite the difference in our ages, we have much in common. We are bound by a matching set of emotional and cerebral contradictions. She is intelligent, witty, sarcastic and dark. She is naïve and ill-prepared for adult life. She is mature and wise beyond her years. She is a child. She is creative and talented, and often her interests become obsessions. She is shy and fears rejection in social settings, but oozes confidence and assurance in her creative pursuits. She suffers from a curse of potential and an awareness of just how much she is capable of accomplishing. She is not deeply religious or spiritual but she personifies the passage – often incorrectly attributed to Nelson Mandela – from the metaphyical writer and Unity Church minister, Marianne Williamson that begins:
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.
She is a lot like me.
Upstairs at the club the surly bartender is completely disinterested in her excitement about reaching the minimum drinking age only moments earlier. For her first legal drink she asks for something straight – no mixed girlie drink will do tonight. She has had whiskey before, but tonight it will be an expensive scotch. Neat. The bartender pours a small taste from each of three bottles that he has selected for their variety and aging. She picks the peaty 18-year old single malt with a surprising air of self-confidence. It is a nice selection, but I can’t tell if her choice is based on a preference for its taste or a symbol of her attitude.
As she takes her first sip there is a fleeting moment when her animated facial expressions freeze, almost imperceptibly. It is an instant that reveals her truth. She doesn’t really like what she’s drinking, but she is determined to finish without revealing her true distaste. It takes over an hour to get to the bottom of the glass and she keeps a stoic face with every sip. Between sips – through the din of the house music – we talk. We talk about things that matter and things that don’t. The time drifts by slowly and it passes in a blink. The uncertain future hangs over us like the musk in the air that fills the club. There is an unexpected connection between us that has only grown stronger with time. Tonight, I can almost touch it.
Just before closing time her glass is empty and she is ready to leave. I move to pay the bartender – but she doesn’t want her first drink to be a gift from anyone. An awkward moment passes as she realizes she has no way of paying. Everything but the driver’s license proving her age is on the bed a few floors down. I slip her enough cash for both of us. She pays for herself, keeps the change and leaves me to cover my own tab… and the tip for both of us.
That was last night – early this morning, actually. Now it’s approaching 10:30 a.m. and she is still asleep. She is still barely twenty-one years old. I am still thirty-three years older than she is, and I still love her more than anyone who knows our story might think possible. I sit across the room from her, intermittently staring and reading the copy of Ariel Gore’s How to Become a Famous Writer Before You’re Dead that I picked up last night at the City Lights bookstore. The book promises to be “an irreverent yet practical guide that combines solid writing advice with guerrilla marketing and promotion techniques…” I imagine that it will be an irreverent, but practical motivation for me to get off my metaphorical ass and write this story before I become senile and forget what actually happened.
I have known her since the day she was born – during a time when I was in love with her mother. Now, twenty-one years later, we are closer than ever. Our relationship has evolved to the point that our bond feels more than emotional or ethereal – that somehow a connection is in our blood. But it is not. Our bond is made of something other than DNA. On a genetic level we are completely distinct.
Her name is Sarah. She is my daughter.
She is the direct descendant of her mother – who we’ll call Susan – and a vial of frozen semen collected from some still anonymous genius – who we’ll call Light Green. When it comes to her conception – her very creation – I like to say I had nothing to do with it – but that is a bit of an oversimplification. I held the flashlight.