Chapter Two
Meeting Daryl Simon In New York City
I sat on my rather uncomfortable seat on the Greyhound bus that was to transport me from my home in London, Ontario, Canada to the exciting, vibrant New York City. My friend, Cindy Talbot, had a three-storey walk-up on the Lower East Side which had come available suddenly, as her somewhat flighty and unreliable roommate had taken off, leaving Cindy to pay the entire rent herself, not to mention an astronomical phone bill. Cindy was not about to find the woman and force her to pay her share, because she was extremely relieved to be rid of the freaking freeloader. When Cindy phoned me with the news, my heart did a twisting highdive into a warm swimming pool of excitement and anticipation. Now I could take a screenplay that had taken me two years to write and shop it around in a city where things happen, wonderful things for anyone in the arts. The screenplay was for a new television series, as I had noticed that the quality of television fare had sharply declined over the past ten or fifteen years. Where were shows like "Columbo, and genuinely funny and wickedly witty like "M*A*S*H and "Seinfeld."
As far as I was concerned, the only three dramas of any kind of quality and good acting were "Law & Order," "ER" and "Law & Order: Special Victims Unit." The rest were, for the most part, shallow and poorly written. My screenplay was written with Chris Noth in mind, who I'd always figured was the best thing about "Law & Order" and "Sex and the City." Yes, I must confess that I am a dyed-in-the-wool "Noth Groupie," for I realized that there weren't any really good parts for him on the small screen. I knew he was extremely fond of the stage, having begun there and so his part in the popular Broadway show entitled, "The Best Man". I had full intentions of Cindy and me to get to that theatre, come hell or the end of the world. My dream was to show him my script and get a good shot of him with me. I'd read on the Internet that Chris wasn't always kind and gracious to fans asking him for autographs and pictures, but I was willing to take a chance. Hey, if he disses me, so what? At least I was told off by my favourite actor.
As the bus neared New York City, I recalled how apprehensive my parents were at their little girl trapsing off to such a mecca of danger and violence, but I assured them that I would never go out alone at night without someone to accompany me and that I'd stay away from strangers. They did realize that I wanted desperately to be on my own and forge out my own success. I'd lived with my mother for the past seven years, over-protected and kept in check and I needed to know that I was capable of changing my life around for the better. Having been in and out of mental hospitals since high school with a type of mental illness, my family wasn't sure if I'd ever be able ti hold onto a job. I'd been living off of a disability pension for thirteen years and hated it. Now it was time to spread my wings and learn not to think of myself as a sick person.
Finally, the bus pulled into the terminal and, upon stepping off the vehicle, I was agast at all the hundreds of people milling around. Compared to London, Canada's bus depot, this was overwhelming. I did finally catch sight of Cindy, with her blazing red hair and funky wardrobe. She waved vigorously from a distance and I somehow managed to weave my way through the tapestry of living bodies as everyone wandered about.
As I approached my flashy friend, she called out excitedly, "Hey there, girl!! You're finally here! Frankly, figured you might have bailed out at the last minute." Cindy grabbed my knapsack and smiled broadly, showing large, white teeth that were perfect enough to star in a toothpaste commercial. "How was your trip?" Cindy, in her typical fashion, was brimming with manic energy. She jumped up and down like a kid, yelling "Whooppeee!" and twirling around with my well-stuffed knapsack.
"Whoa, girl! You're going to blow a gasket, whatever that means. I was still distracted by the size of this depot and wondered how the hell we were going to get to our apartment. I felt my hands begin to sweat and my mouth suddenly became dry, as if all the saliva had been vaccuumed out of my mouth. "Just calm down and tell me whether or not we're taking the infamous subway or hail a cab." I'd heard many horror stories about New York's underground railroad and was gripped by a sudden wave of acute anxiety. "Tell me we can afford to cab it," I said pleadingly, wondering if all of this had been a terrible mistake and that I should hop on the next Greyhound back home.
Cindy slowed down her whirling dervish routine and looked at me with genuine sympathy. "Hey, girl, I'm really sorry. I've had a crazy day and all, but you don't need my antics after just getting off the bus. Of course we can grab a taxi. Let's go---oh, we have to stop at a restaurant for supper. I forgot to get groceries yesterday. We can go together tomorrow. Sorry about that. Hey, some warm welcome I'm giving you, Sara Jane. Come on----the grub's on me tonight."
As the two of us wandered outside, where the surreal cloak of dusk wrapped itself around the Big Apple and bathed it in sleepy darkness. The temperature was still quite warm, even though it was late November and the neon lights that transformed everything and everyone in an oddly shimmering coat. I began to feel less anxious and apprehensive. One couldn't stay that way for too long with the energetic and enthusiastic Cindy. There was a small greasy spoon eatery closeby, so the two of us wandered in. I ordered tofu and rice, as I was a vegan vegetarian, while my carnivorous friend feasted on roast beef and gravy. "You still eating that veggie stuff, Sara Jane? Cindy asked, a playful smirk dancing on her face. "I don't know how you can stand that tofu stuff---it looks like lard."
"It's hardly lard," I responded, realizing I'd never succeed into converting Cindy, "It's a kind of plant marrow, which is extremely LOW in fat and high in nutirents. The Japanese eat it all the time and they show far less diseases than those who don't include it in their diet. And that's the end of my soapbox aria." I smiled and then after our food was delivered, we launched into a conversation about our prospective big dreams and the reality that I'd have to get some kind of blue collar job until I sold my screenplay. Cindy wanted very much to read it, so I told her she could, when I got unpacked at the apartment.
Cindy was already working as a waitress in one of Manhattan's trendy restaurants and told me she got fantastic tips. She knew I hadn't worked at a regular job for a long time and suggested applying for a bussboy (bussperson?) position at the same place. "They need a new one, since the last guy got canned for butting out his cigarette in a customer's mashed potatoes." Cindy made a face as she recalled the sickening sight. "It was enough to make me quit smoking."
As I watched my friend lighting up, I couldn't help saying, with a playful wink, "But not quite enough." I felt a warm sense of relief that I may have a job sooner than I thought. Going from place to place for days on end was not only demoralizing--it was exhausting. "Do I have to have a resume?" I asked with a stab of apprehension, "because I haven't worked since 1987. Aren't they going to wonder what I was doing for thirteen years?"
Cindy bounced up and down with unbounded enthusiasm. "Oh, hey, don't sweat a thing! You wrote a book that got published. If you write that on the resume, my boss will be tres impressed."
I shook my head. "The book didn't exactly make me a household name. That's the main reason that I moved here. Besides, it was my autobiography about being mentally ill. Big freaking deal, Cindy. You think I want anyone in New York to know that?" I pushed my food around my plate, being too excited and apprehsive to eat.
Cindy leaned forward on the table and looked intensely into my red-rimmed eyes. "Listen to me, Sara Jane," Cindy began, grasping my hands tightly. "You can do any damn thing you want. Not everyone can write a whole book. So what if you got sick while in high school. Look at that book, "Girl, Interrupted" by Suzana Kayson. They made it into a fricking movie with Winona Ryder and Angelina Jolie for God's sake!" Quit putting yourself down already. You keep that up and this city will bury you."
I decided to put my published work on my resume. We finished our meal and took a cab to our three-story walk-up. I was bone tired from the long trip. All I wanted was to tumble into a nice bed and lose my nervousness in sleep. I told Cindy she could read my screenply if she didn't want to crash as yet. It was only nine o'clock, but I didn't want to have to contend with anything more until daybreak.
Well, the three-story walk-up wasn't exactly Buckingham Palace, but in a metropolis like New York, I figured that I was fortunate not to be living alongside several dozen rats. In fact, aside from the fact that all of the walls were painted fluorescent pink with a giant, leering clown splashed as some sort of bizarre mural in my tiny bedroom, the apartment wasn't half bad. I'd had a friend who'd been living here for several years pick this place out for me---in return, I promised to take her to see "The Best Man" on Broadway. She wasn't as gung ho about Chris as I was---she had a thing for Mel Gibson, but really wanted to see the play. I told her that we'd be waiting outside the backstage door in hopes of getting an autograph, a photo and maybe even some chitchat with Da Man. We decided that it would be a nice gesture if we handed him a dozen roses, just as all the actors and actresses were taking their final bows. I wasn't sure how plausible that would actually be, but was determined to give it a shot.
I had heard via the grapevine that Chris wasn't always gracious to fans hanging around the backstage door after the play had finished, so I was averse to asking for a picture and autograph. Actually, I did understand his reluctance, what with so many fans snapping photos of their favourite stars, only to auction them off at e-bay, an Internet site which garnered an incredible amount of traffic. So, I could see why Chris would not want to be commodity. Who would, after all? I mean, just because someone is in the public eye, doesn't give fans carte blanche to do whatever they damn well please to squeeae every fragment of vicarious limelight out of people who are, in reality, just doing their jobs. Nobody owns anyone, or at least that's the general belief, so if Chris Noth has reservations about snapshots and autographs, who could blame him?
I spent three hours unpacking and trying to decide what colour of paint to buy, in order that those ghastly pink walls and hideous mural could be things of the past, as soon as humanly possible. This apartment had come furnished, but it still needed a dresser, desk, two more chairs and a television set. My father had promised to ship my ghetto blaster next week so that I could emotionally bathe myself in my favourite music if and when I got lonely.
I paused in my frenetic activity to ponder whether or not it was a wise decision to move so far away from my family and friends. After all, this wasn't exactly the "city of brotherly love." My father was terribly apprehensive about my move here, but I had told him that, as a writer, it would be best if I lived in a city where opportunities would be at my fingertips and my fledgling playwriting career might blossom into fruition.
Cindy had called at 4PM to ask if I wanted to meet her for lunch at her favourite restaurant and I readily accepted. Spending my first evening alone in a strange city and apartment didn't exactly make me feel terribly wonderful, so the two of us got together at a little Italian place in downtown Manhattan. Cindy was an architect and made good money, but she didn't flaunt it in my face. I knew I would have to get a job as a waitress or bartender to supliment the income from my one published book, but it didn't bother me. I'd once worked as a janitor at a public school, so any job would surpass mopping countless floors and emptying trash dumpsters.
"So, how do you like New York so far?" Cindy asked over Ceasar salads (no bacon bits on mine, as I was a vegetarian). Cindy was an unusually attractive young woman of thirty-five, with thick, auburn hair cascading over a slender back. Her bright, green eyes never missed a thing and a full, rosebud mouth framed with tiny laugh lines. Cindy Besch had gone to school with me in London, Ontario, but had moved to New York to attend New York University to study architecture. There, she'd met a man who was studying law, an intelligent, handsome twenty-one-year-old who'd fallen in love with Cindy on sight, it seemed and pressured her to move in with him.
Fortunately, she didn't, for as it turned out, he had date raped a student two years before and had received a very light sentence: Three years probation, which Cindy had thought was an outrage. For all of Cindy's worldliness, having travelled through Europe the summer before, she could be exceedinly naive. Being naive, particularly in a city like New York, was not a good thing, to say the least.
After a sumptuous dinner of spaghetti with grated cheese and rich sauce (Cindy ordered meatballs on hers---I was unable to convert her), we made plans to attend "Our Town." "Have you ever seen a play on Broadway?" I asked, excitement rumbling away in my stomach.
Cindy smiled, revealing a set of perfect, white teeth. "Yes. Last year I saw "Les Miserables" and bawled my eyes out all the way through." She went on to ask me if I still had a "thing" for Chris Noth. "Are you still planning on meeting him someday?" she asked, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I know you've raved on and on about him since "Law & Order" started back in 1990."
Cindy loved to tease me about my passion for that tall, dark and devastatingly handsome actor who'd made being a cop a glamorous thing and who'd been the object of my schoolgirl fantasies for the past ten years. Since Cindy had such a tremendous love for Mel Gibson and had told me she saw "Braveheart" eight times. I knew then what I would give her for Christmas: The "Braveheart" DVD, so she could be in "Mel Heaven" anytime she wanted.
What was it about the human race that we gravitate toward the rich and famous? Was it to give ourselves a bit of a break from our often mundane, everyday lives? Was it to fulfill fantasies that cannot be fostered by the real people in our lives? Or did being a fan give everyone a chance to try to control the aspect of our existence, whereas a real boyfriend presents a situation we cannot even begin to control? Whatever the cause, I knew that reading and looking at pictures about hunky Chris Noth made my days go just a whole lot more smoothly.
Just then, my meandering thoughts were interrupted with Cindy uttering the magic words, "I've already got tickets to the play. Third row centre. How about them apples, kiddo?" She procured them from her purse and waved them in front of my excitement-laced face. "Now, am I great or what?"
After the two of us parted and I braved my first subway ride back to my place, my heart was pounding in my chest as if it wanted out and I felt awash in warmth and giddiness. "The Best Man" was right within my grasp. Should I buy a single, red rose to give to Chris during curtain call? Would it be better if I left it at that, perhaps saying to him, "I know everyone wants pictures and autographs. Well, I don't want anything from you. Your fantastic performance in the play is enough for me." Could I really be that magnanimous?
The next morning, I awakened to a snow squall, which had transformed the city into a veritable winter wonderland. On one hand, I was happy to see the ground blanketed in twinkling white snow, but on the other, I knew that this was just the beginning of a long and frigid winter. I showered, dressed, donned my make-up and went over my resume carefully. Yes, I did have an Honours BA in English, but had not attended teacher's college, as originally planned. Instead, I took up writing, something I'd been doing since the age of five and what was the only thing that made me truly happy. I'd written a novel about a mental hospital, using personal data to give the book credibility, but a lack of publicity had resulted in all of my hard work and sweat going relatively unnoticed. Well, I vowed that my next book would not sink quietly under the waves or become mired in a sea of quicksand. I was in New York now and perhaps it was time to search out a different publisher.
I had thought I'd try my hand at waitressing or bartending again (those were the jobs I'd had during my years as an undergraduate student), but now that I'd had some time to think about it, I made up my mind to swallow my fear and shyness and go after a job doing freelance writing, perhaps for the New York Post. My father would call this "pie-in-the-sky" thinking, but I rarely paid any attention what either he or Mom said. Theirs was a different generation and besides, I wasn't a slouch when it came to newspaper writing. I'd worked as assistant editor for my university's paper and had earned many kudos. Could it be that, perhaps, I had too much confidence? But then, in this town, if a person lacked self-esteem, the results could be fatal as far as a career was concerned.
I took the subway to downtown Manhattan, trying very hard not to think about all the horror stories I'd heard about this subterranean mode of transportation. When I reached my destination, I disembarked and found myself near Central Park West. I hadn't planned on ending up here, but I'd forgotten to look up the address of the Post and figured that someone on the street would know and point me in the right direction. I suppose that was naive thinking too, for everyone I passed seemed to be doing everything possible to avoid eye contact with anyone else. Welcome to New York, Sara Jane.
As I made my way down the somewhat crowded street, I spied the infamous Central Park on the other side. In daylight, it looked innocuous enough and I guessed that nobody got mugged or stabbed while there was daylight present. I crossed the street and decided to check out this park, to see if there were paths throughout where I could do my running. I could just hear my mother now: "Don't you know that women runners get killed in Central Park? What are you thinking?" But I was undaunted. Fortunately, fear was something with which I had little acquaintance.
Snow dusted the ground and trees of the park and I wished I'd brought peanuts to feed the squirrels. A group of young boys were chasing one another and a mother was walking her baby in a stroller. It certainly didn't appear the least bit threatening and decided that the dangerous aspects of Central Park were merely mythological.
After walking about for over two hours, I decided to seek out a park bench on which I could cool my flat heels for awhile. After looking about for ten minutes or so, I spied a bench, but it was already occupied by a man, lying horizontally with his coat covering him like a blanket. That must be a homeless man, I thought, remembering what Cindy had told me about the terrible homeless problem there was in the States, particularly New York.
I approached him cautiously, in case he was mentally ill and believing me to be someone who would hurt him. As I drew nearer, I could see that he didn't appear that old---perhaps in his late thirties or early forties. He was sound asleep, but I was afraid that if I left him there, he might die of exposure. He was wearing sweats and the coat covering him didn't seem warm enough for this cold weather.
The man's brown hair was draped over his face to obscure his features and he had at least two day's worth of beard. I had no idea where the nearest soup kitchen was, but I was carrying a granola bar in my knapsack, which, I figured, was better than nothing. I gently poked him on the shoulder and he jumped up with a start, yelling, "What? What's going on?" He brushed the camouflaging wisps of hair from his face and as he did so, I felt my knees growing weak and wobbly. No, I thought, my mind doing flipflops, it can't be him. No way---there was NO WAY that was who I thought it to be.
But, as it turned out, the scruffy man sleeping on a Central Park bench was none other than------Chris Noth! I stood there, not even a foot away from him, my mouth agog and my voice escaping me. Had I suddently been caught up in the Twilight Zone?
As it turned out, Chris had been out for an hour and a half of rigorous jogging and had simply run out of steam in this section of Central Park. I opened my mouth to speak, but words failed me at this moment, but Chris came to my rescue by saying, in affable tones, "Don't worry---I'm sure you're thinking that I've become a homeless alcoholic---Lord knows a lot of people on the Internet have me pegged as one." He sat up on the bench and motioned for me to sit beside him. I obliged, with words that were determined not to leap out of my mouth as the full intensity of the moment took hold: I was in the middle of Central Park, early in the morning with Chris Noth. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, I smiled and asked him, "Do you live near here?" Then it suddently occurred to me that he might think I wanted to follow him home. "Oh, don't worry--it's not for any personal reasons on my part. I just wondered if I could, well get you back there so you could freshen up."
Chris smiled in that killer-meltdown-grin that never failed to take the wind out of my flapping sails. "Don't worry. I started running two months ago to lose a few pounds and now it's gotten to be an addiction." Frank pushed a piece of his thick, dark hair from his eyes and pulled on warm mittens. "You want to come back to my place for a coffee. You look as though you could use some warming up too."
I wanted to blurt out that he didn't have to worry about losing weight, but decided not to try to get too personal. After all, this was Chris Noth and I was a struggling writer with one book under my belt that didn't exactly make me a household name.
Just then, two playful squirrels hurried by, scolding us, I guess, for not having any treats for them. I reached into my knapsack and pulled out a chocolate bar that can only be bought in Canada. I broke a piece of "Mr. Big" and held it close to the noisier of the two. It quickly grabbed the sugary morsal and took off before his friend got wind of it.
"I guess that, in the squirrel world anyway, generosity is a dying art," said Chris, rubbing his chin. "Whoa, I really do need a shave---no wonder you figured me as a homeless man. Way to go, Chris, old boy."
The two of us made it to Chris's place, which wasn't far from the park and while he made us coffee, I looked around to discover what wealthy show business people's digs were like. Chris's apartment was quite unpretentios---more of a cozy atmosphere dominated the living room. There were no famous and expensive Ming Dynasty vases or huge and elaborate stereo system. Hmmm, here's a guy who doesn't surround himself with the gilted trappings of wealth. I think I'm going to like this man behind the television and Broadway roles.
After coffee and bagels, Chris showered and shaved and while he did so, I sneaked about his apartment, trying to determine other aspects of his personality. He was obviously an animal lover, as he had tacked up a bunch of photos of orphaned dogs and cats at the local Humane Society. I smiled and felt my heart expanding in my chest. A man who saves animals? Who could ask for anything more.
But then, I was jerked forcibly back to reality when I spied a photo on Chris's coffee table. Picking it up and taking a close look, I noticed a petite, young woman mounted on a horse and smiling the brazen smile of someone who's got it all and knows it. Of course Frank would have a girlfriend," I thought, suddenly coming to the realization that there was no way in hell that a famous, gorgeous and ultra-talented actor would ever even entertain thoughts of dating a writer who lived in the Bronx and who wasn't exactly Catharine Zeta-Jones in the looks department. But could I ever be----ever even dream of being Chris's friend? Time would tell.
When Chris emerged from the bathroom, clean shaven, I decided that it was time for me to leave. I didn't want to put the guy in an awkward position, wishing that I'd go, but not wanting to cause any hurt feelings. He seemed relieved and smiled at me, in a warm and oh-so-sexy way that he'd pretty much patented. "Can I get your phone number?" Chris asked, helping me on with my rather tattered coat. I squelched the urge to yell, "Whooopie!" and responded, in as cool of a demeaner as I knew how, "Why, sure. I'll just write it down here for you. Call any time, okay?"
When I arrived back at the small and Lower East Side apartment, I didn't even notice the gloom of the place, so caught up was I in my day with Chris, the one celebrity that offered me blissful escape with my daydreams and fantasies involving Da Mn himself. "Now, this is a day for my journal," I spoke aloud, rooting around for the well-used volumwe. "And I bet Cindy won't even believe me." But I knew what had happened and nothing would or could change that.
Click on the link below to get to Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Chris Noth's Haunting Transparency
