boy in crisis

My phone rings.  I see it’s Alexander.  He’s coming home tonight. He must be at the airport now.  Or at least on his way to the airport.  How sweet that he’s calling.  Maybe to tell me that he can’t wait to come home, though I doubt it.  He’s really loving LA.

I pick up.

No hello.  Just a frantic voice.

 “I need you to go to the bank right now and put money in my account.  I have to pay $25 to check my bag and I don't think they take American Express and I don’t have any money left in my checking account so I can’t use my debit card and I'm standing in the back of a very long line and the plane takes off in a half hour.”

Me (calmly):  “Ok,” I can transfer money from my computer right now.  I’ll call you right back.”

I go to my online bank account, but see that I am not linked to my son’s checking account.  I call him back.

Me:  “Hi.  Sorry.  I’m not linked to your account.  I’ll go over to the bank now.”

Alexander:  “Okay.  You better be able to do this or else I’m really fuc*ed.”

I rush over to the bank.  Damn. They are closed.  No tellers.  Only ATM’s.  And our accounts are not linked.  I call Alexander back.  He’s calm now.

Alexander:  "Never mind.  They took my American Express.  Thanks anyway."

These incidents I haven’t missed.  But my son I have.  I can’t wait to see him.  Six weeks is a long time, but feels even longer when you are separated by 3,000 miles. 

no means no

Sometimes it’s good to ignore reviews. 

Zelia and I see a play, The Long Shrift at my favorite little hole-in-the-wall theater, Rattlestick. 

We both love it.  The writing is provocative and the acting is good.  The critics hate it.

The play is about a squeaky-clean high school boy who has sex with the rich and popular other-side-of-the-tracks prom queen.  He ends up in jail for five years and comes out a hardened, bitter man.  She, too, has had a miserable time of it.

As a mother of a boy, I tell my son more than he wants to hear, if a girl says no, don’t question or doubt her. No means no.  It doesn’t matter if it’s delivered playfully.  Teasingly. Drunkenly. Or any other way.  Just stop whatever it is you are doing and leave.

A good friend of mine from the Midwest has a daughter.  When her daughter was a freshman at a very good liberal arts college, she willingly ended up with a fellow freshman in his dorm room. They both had been drinking.  One thing led do another, as these drunken encounters do.  He went further than she wanted to.  She resisted. He persisted. She reported it to the school as rape, after he and his friends began harassing her.  There was a lengthy review, and the boy was not allowed to finish the school semester (this was in March).  The girl was outraged.  The boy eventually dropped out of school in his junior year and the girl helped the school set in place a better system for reporting and reviewing on-campus sexual abuse.

It’s a tough topic with no easy answers.  Colleges are doing their best to address it, but so much more can be done.  Most rapes that do get reported are of the he-said-she-said kind.  Very difficult to prove.   And no one, understandably, wants to find someone guilty of rape if there is any doubt of his guilt.

Despite what the calendar says, it’s a perfect fall night.  Zelia and I stroll through the West Village and talk of our children (she has a son and daughter, both in college).  Beautiful East 10^th Street near Washington Square is quiet.  No people, only stately townhouses. It reminds us both of a much earlier New York.  The place where Edith Wharton and Henry James lived.  I imagine it as a less complicated time.

stupid advice

Alexander books a ride back to school on the Cornell Bus. 

I am happy he has planned ahead as the bus fills up quickly.  Perhaps my son is becoming more responsible about the minutia of life.

Ah, but then I see my Amex has been charged $90.  It has always been $82.50 for a one-way ticket.  So I go on the site and see, in a hard-to-miss red box, the following:

I read the new rates and see that for students, the old rate still applies.  You just have to update your account and add your student I.D. number.  This my son does not do.

So I call to see about getting a refund.  It's only $7.50, but still. 

A very stern, by-the-books-no matter-what type person, answers the phone.  She is humorless.  I am probably her 100th caller since the new rules were put in place. She is unbending.  These are the rules and there are no exceptions.

As much as I try, there is no convincing this woman to give me a credit of $7.50.  But she does offer advice.

"You should tell your son that he needs to read the instructions better."

"Your son can get the discount next time.  Just tell him to make sure he enters his ID number on his account."

I say, "Thank-you.  I'm well aware of what I need to tell my son.  I bet you've gotten a ton of calls on this."

"Yes, we have.  And most people just move on.  I suggest you do the same."

And the funny thing is, there is not one bit of sarcasm in her response.  She is100% sincere.

"I'm sorry, did you say I should move on?"

"Yes," she responds. "Others have."

I thank her, hang up, and do my best to put this behind me and move on.  It'll be a tough road ahead, but with the support of friends and family, and maybe a good therapist, I think I'll be able to do it.

a simple challenge

Whenever I go to the office I stop and pick up a large coffee from a nearby Korean grocer.  The prices are cheap; the coffee is good; and the cashier who always waits on me knows exactly how much half and half to add.  I've been going to this place for a few months now and I've yet to see this girl smile.

So I have given myself the task of trying to get her to smile.  It's been my secret little game.  The other day, for instance, she was reading The Post.  "Any good news?" I ask.  She impassively responds, quite literally, "I don't know; I just started reading it."

Another day I smile and say, "You always get the amount of half and half exactly right.  You'd be amazed at how many people don't."  She looks at me with deadpan eyes and says, "It's not that hard."

Today I confess.  "You know, everyday I try to see if I can get you to smile, and so far, I haven't been successful."

She looks up and says (without smiling of course), "By the time you see me I'm tired."  I don't bother pointing out that I see her at all different times.

I'm fairly confident this is one challenge I can conquer.  I mean, it's not like I'm trying to get her to laugh.  That, I think, would be impossible.

"maybe today you'll get lucky"

Once upon a time, when someone said, "Maybe today (or more commonly tonight)  you'll get lucky," it meant only one thing.

But today, when Marie, the lovely woman who sits next to me at work says it, she means something entirely different.

Today I'm on Office Duty.  And Marie's comment is in reference to that.

Every month, a schedule is circulated, and each salesperson is assigned Office Duty. That means that if a call comes in, or a prospective client wanders into our office, whomever is on call, gets that person. It is an equitable system.

I started work the beginning of April, and got on the Office Duty rotation beginning in May.  Since then, I have been on duty almost 38 hours — basically, a full week.  And in that time, I have gotten not one person who has called, and not one person who has walked in off the street. Until today.

I am on duty and my phone rings.  It never ever rings.  I know that the receptionist has passed on a call to me.  I immediately reach in my desk and take out the prospective-client questionnaire I created. I am ready. 

This is how the call goes.

Me:  “Hello.”

Female Caller:  “Who's this?”

I've always hated when people do this.  You called me.  I shouldn't have to identify myself.  

Me:  “I'm sorry.  Who's calling please?”

Female Caller:  “Maddie Mumpry.  I'd like to speak with a broker.”

Me:  “Well, I'm a broker.  My name is.......How can I help you?”

Female Caller:  “I'd like to know what the procedure is for getting a job at your company.”

I guess today was not my lucky day.  Oh well.  There’s always tomorrow.

summer weekend

In the city with no plans.  If I have to be here, having no plans is a plus.  I like the option of spontaneity. And even in the summer, there is much to do in New York.

On Saturday, I buy a $4 single ticket on Play-by-Play for a show I want to see, Poor Behavior by Theresa Rebeck.  I honestly don’t mind going to theater by myself.  I am given a fantastic seat, Row E, dead center. Next to me is Wallace Shawn — a gnome-like actor probably most recognized for My Dinner with Andre.  But he is personable, with none of that don’t- talk-to-me-because-I'm-famous air that many actors seem to have.  Granted, he's not a big-name star, but still. 

The play is great.  Provocative, well-acted, and keeps you guessing about the motives of each of the four characters. 

Sunday is the last day of the Charles James exhibit at The Met and so I go.  One nice thing about summer in New York is that the weekends are empty.  As evidence, I am able to easily cross both sides of Park Avenue against the light.  But then I get to the museum and find all the people that are missing from the streets.  The place is packed.  What’s most impressive is all the men that have followed their wives, girlfriends, and mothers to an exhibit on ladies' dresses.

I am supposed to meet Zelia tonight to see Boyhood.  But then I get lost in the book I'm reading, Big Little Lies by Liane Moriarty.  I call to give Zelia an out, but she still wants to go so I tell her I'll meet her at 5:45 in front of the theater.  A half hour later Zelia calls back.  "You got your wish.  I'm feeling lazy too."  Perfect.  

Even when there's so much to do, sometimes the thing I enjoy doing most is nothing.