Chapter 53: NYC

 Chapter 53: NYC

I buy an emergency ticket to NYC while in the Paris airport after hundreds of American flights are cancelled. I would no longer stop in SLC but meet Spencer directly in NYC. At the hotel I realize I’ve mistakenly booked for the week earlier and quickly book another 3 days. Spencer arrives in the evening, and we excitedly go over the plan for my first time at Broadway.

Waiting for Spencer, I reflected on the past few months. Just as cancer was a curse, it had also become a gift: It had rendered life unencumbered and discarded its frugal bashfulness. For years I had let an imagined future direct my present—like piecing together a large puzzle of square pieces by picture only. Every misplaced piece broke some imagined deterministic future and nucleated dread, regret, and anxiety that tore away at the present. Yet disease somehow untethered the present from the tug of the imagined future and freed me of the narrative paradox.

I was sick, but I had become free and unbound by expectation. I would never have spontaneously flown to New York for Broadway when I was healthy, but I could not bear to leave my life in the garage for bluer skies, only to have it uncovered post-mortem like a time capsule of hopes and dreams, even if those hopes and dreams had been irrevocably changed in the process.

The following morning, we turned our eyes to the stars and had brunch at the nearby “Galaxy Diner.” This was a true cheap diner that made Denny’s look like fine dining. It was the kind of place you’d expect to find people just waking up from a drunken night, surrounded by cold coffee and pancakes, either in front or under them. Our coffee and omelets are decent and give us the chance to observe the space-themed wall art and galaxy speckled ceiling. The colors were eclectic, fluorescent, and heavily saturated—it was like dining inside someone’s bad mushroom trip.

We go to Central Park and meander for a while. Sunlight pierced tall evergreen trees and illuminated our small path like spotlights. Families and children darted around and played made-up games or climbed nearby hills and rocks. Watching them, I felt an ache in my chest—I missed climbing and being a part of a large outdoor community. Central Park was a little section of original earth tucked away in an anthropocentric jungle. But antithetical to the city, the park seemed to soften and relax people.

We pass a rowboat rental and a restaurant but were $20 short of the cash-only rental. The restaurant could not offer us cash change and the ATM outside was broken. Spencer hailed to a nearby bike chariot and asked him if we could Venmo him for $20 in exchange for a $20 bill. He agreed.

We re-entered the restaurant for beers. While they told us that we technically couldn’t “take them to go,” we could certainly take them outside. The distinction remains unclear to me. We got our rowboat, blatantly carrying the beer-filled plastic cups past the “no alcohol” sign and several staff, who helped us into the rowboat and pushed us onto the lake. The sun felt warmer on there. It was a photographer’s dream: each new section of lake offered varied and incredible views of the New York City skyline. The base of each scene was demarcated by a base of central park greenery. Fluffy cumulus clouds lingered behind skyscrapers and etched their edges like a stencil. Spencer sat in front of me, directing me like a coxswain. I put my complete trust in his direction. Spencer is a terrific friend who’s introduced me to countless new and wonderful experiences. He’s one of the few people who knows how to grab life and seize all it has to offer. Even when I am unable to think and feel, I will miss Spencer when I’m gone.

We begin to wander back to the hotel, and Spencer finds tickets to “Come from Away” immediately following Hadestown. We buy surprisingly inexpensive front-row tickets. On the way to Waitress, we stop for a quick dinner. The theater thankfully requires vaccine cards to enter. Upon entering the lobby, we’re welcomed by the overwhelming aroma of pie. Will they be serving or selling pie later? Unfortunately, no, for which I’m almost thankful because I knew I could not eat it anyhow.

The lights dim and Jenifer Nettles’ voice begins to fill the room. The rest of the cast joins. They sing a gorgeous sound picture with incredible tone and timbre. The musical follows Jenna (Nettles), who endures a difficult personal situation and must forfeit a life goal while making the most of broken circumstances. Over the next two hours we enjoyed an incredible emotional and musical range of performance—I oscillated between tears and hysterical laughing like waves on a beach. I wanted to do this more, to see more, and I wondered what incredible musical would premier next. But I forced myself to stop; I couldn’t start painting imaginary futures.

…

Hadestown exhibited most of the original cast, and Spencer had gotten us seats close enough to touch the stage. The lights dim. A spotlight shines directly in front of me and illuminates Andre De Shields (narrator, and Hermes). He has an intense, soul-interrogating gaze that is palpable whenever our eyes meet. It sends a tingle down my spine the first time. I had only previously listened to the musical The choreography unveiled an enormous layer of performance and meaning: the machines of industrialization transformed people into soulless, empty machines. They work to build a wall and protect what they have, even when what they have is a poison.

Hadestown follows the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice and examines the purpose of myth and the importance of narrator, as well as the utility of telling a pre-determined story. Eurydice and Orpheus are separated for the last time, never to see one another again. The lights go dark, and the narrator speaks: “To know how it ends and still begin to sing, as if it might turn out differently this time.” The line still resonates with me today. My ending is known, but this cannot stop my telling, or singing out as if it might turn out differently. These tragic stories build for us all a collective mythos. Still, the most phenomenal moment was doing an “air cheers” with Andre De Shields complete with a smile and a wink. I briefly felt like a little boy again.

…

Unlike the previous two musicals, I had never listened to Come from Away, which was largely an ensemble production and featured few solos. The show tells the true story of the incredible kindness of Newfoundlanders as they prepare last-minute to care for hundreds of people on diverted flights after the tragedy of 9/11. I was reminded me of when my tumor was first found, and the time it grew aggressively. Without even asking, what seems like hundreds of people came to my side to help and offered support and company and care—those things that vitalize dignity but are oft forgotten in medicine. If I ever returned, I would be a better doctor.

Following Come from Away we hop in a quick uber to catch our reservation at Perry Street dining. The restaurant is run by Jean-Georges and Cedric Vongerichten, the former a world-renowned chef with a decorated background. My bass is perfectly cooked: buttery soft on the inside with moderately crispy skin that overflows with umami. We briefly reflected on the success of our trip—a rarity, given our relatively poor combined planning abilities.

…

Along the trip I never came to any new profound conclusions or meanings around life or death. I wasn’t a changed person, and if anything, I was aggressively more of the same person I had been when I arrived. And the trip didn’t establish any new trends or context for my life. But I did enjoy that time and I think that’s enough. Great experiences need not help create a new or improved version of ourselves for the future.