A Writer’s Diary Entries From Early November, 2001
Saturday, November 3, 2001
6 PM. Last night I fell asleep at 8:30 PM, so when I woke up at 3:30 AM, I had a full night’s sleep. But I wasn’t in such good shape today: I have that dull toothache that probably makes me depressed and irritable. Or should I say “more depressed and irritable”?
This afternoon Mom, probably sensing that I felt down, came into Marc’s room to ask what was wrong.
What’s wrong is a lot of things, many of them the same problems I’ve had for months, if not since last year.
I don’t have any money except from credit cards and bankruptcy is my only option. I don’t have a decent job; I don’t feel successful as a writer. Living in my parents’ house, I don’t feel like a successful adult, – although at this point I would rather not be alone.
Will I ever “get back on my feet,” as Mom assures me I will?
I don’t know, and that’s scary. Of course, compare me with most of the people on this planet, and I’m doing fine.
What’s really fueling terrorism and the approval of the World Trade Center bombing in much of the Third World is that millions of people see so many rich people here and feel the gap between their lives as peasants and the people in the U.S. seems unbridgeable.
Even by U.S. standards, I am not that poor; at least I’ve been able to live quite well all my life. That may change, but when the economy pulls out of this recession, I should be able – post-bankruptcy – to find a job and live at least on a minimal level.
I mean, it’s stupid that I fantasize and catastrophize about my becoming homeless. When I confided in Vincent that I fear one day I won’t have a place to live, he said, No, you have family.
He’s right, I guess. I even responded: “And I also have friends that are like family.”
This morning I went to the Starbucks on Dobson Road next to Quail Creek– sort of like revisiting my unhappy past. (Today was the day last year that I was prescribed Ativan after that massive nightlong anxiety attack after I first took Paxil.)
Then I went to see Sat Darshan. Kiran was going to a birthday party with “Auntie” Nirankar and Trevor, but in the end she felt too sick to go.
Even when I played with Kiran, she kept coughing and her nose was running – of course now I worry about catching her cold – but she seemed energetic.
However, soon after Nirankar and Trevor arrived to pick up Kiran, it became apparent that she was ill and that it wasn’t just allergies, as Sat Darshan had thought.
I just called Sat Darshan and she said Kiran was definitely sick because she was napping even at this late hour. But she said that after I left, she had to take Kiran on her errands today because she had no one to watch her.
It’s too bad that Kiran didn’t get to go to the party today because then I could have had spent more time alone with Sat Darshan.
She did have time to talk about her new job. At Hospice of the Valley, she’s constantly surrounded by other people. That’s a drastic change from her other offices, even at the VA, where she had her own cubicle.
The incoming phone calls become so busy in the afternoon that personal phone calls are out of the question, and she doesn’t get to surf the Web or use email for non-job stuff.
Even with our limited time to talk, it was good to see Sat Darshan, and I enjoyed playing with Kiran although I was somewhat preoccupied with my own anxiety and depression.
Much of today I had that really bad pit-of-the-stomach feeling that I had last fall, and I worry that the whole cycle is starting over.
Mom said I’m just nervous about my trip to New York. I guess I’ll go, but I haven’t yet packed.
I took a midday Triavil today, and I’ll probably take two more and 0.25 milligrams of Klonopin tonight. I didn’t take any 
Klonopin this morning, though perhaps I should have.
Getting a loan payment book from Sallie Mae in the mail upset me; I forgot I need to ask them, along with Direct Loans, for an unemployment deferment. Hopefully it will be granted.
I may be able to discharge the Sallie Mae loan in bankruptcy because it’s older than the Direct Loans, but realistically, there’s not going to be any way for me to pay off these loans.
In a way, I’d be much better off if we go into a economic depression rather than a brief recession because then lots more people will default.
Tom wrote a very eloquent letter on how the U.S. needs to reflect on why terrorism began and why it’s supported by so many Muslims and other poor people around the world.
Miriam wrote that Rich has been scouting out the East Coast for jobs, though Boston is out of the question because Miriam happy hates it there.
She hopes Rich’s midlife crisis is the worst thing they have to face because she really loves him. Isabelle is doing fine and has purple hair. And Miriam’s book from Red Hen Press is finally out.
Tuesday, November 6, 2001
6:30 AM. It’s early morning in Locust Valley, and I’m buried under a pile of quilts and blankets at Teresa and Paul’s house.
Last night Teresa and I talked for a long time after I got in at 9 PM, so I felt too tired to write by the time I went to bed at 11:30 PM.
Of course, I slept only from 1 AM to 5 AM, when I awoke from a dream in which my rejection letter for the job at Nova Law School said that everyone they spoke to at CGR said positive stuff about me – except for one woman who seemed out for “revengeance” (a term from the Klansman’s speech in Brandenburg v. Ohio).
So I wonder if I got a rejection letter in Arizona yesterday.
On Sunday night I did sleep well, drifting off early and waking only briefly when my father and brothers celebrated Arizona’s come-from-behind, bottom-of-the-ninth victory in the World Series.
But having gone to bed so early, I awoke at 4 AM, and I felt really nervous all morning. I wish I could stop feeling anxious every time I travel. It’s become so wearing.
I remember Beverly, the nurse-practitioner, telling me a year ago, “I think you’ve had this [anxiety] all your life,” and she was right. The only solution seems to be what Mom does, which is becoming a recluse. Now I can understand why I became an agoraphobic as a teenager.
Dad drove me to the airport, and I was there really early. After skimming the Times at Starbucks, I spent 90 minutes by the gate, eating and reading. I did feel less anxious once I was in the airport.
Our plane, like the Delta flights I took from Northwest Arkansas and Atlanta, was overbooked, so America West is also making sure their planes fly full.
The flight was long and tedious. The movie, America’s Sweetheart, was not worth seeing again, and the meal consisted of vile cheeseburgers.
The driver from Mid-Island Taxi was at the baggage terminal (Gregson, his sign said), and it took forever to get my luggage. And I was stunned by the 45° blast of air as we walked to the parking lot. In Phoenix on Sunday it had been a record 95°, so it was a big change.
The driver knew all the shortcuts and we got here pretty fast. Paul was already in bed, but Teresa was downstairs with the TV. She just gotten off the phone with Pam, who didn’t want Teresa putting me in “her” bedroom.
Pam is lonely in Brooklyn, and Teresa’s mother has been annoyed with her for making what seemed to Teresa perfectly reasonable requests – like fixing all the electric outlets that don’t work.
Teresa also feels it’s unreasonable for her mother to be annoyed at how the house looks from the street because Pam puts up the Venetian blinds all the way so she can see the great view of the Midtown skyline from the windows.
Until last night, I didn’t realize that Teresa’s aunt and uncle had sold their house in Floral Park and have decided to move to Aspen to be close to their kids.
They’ve spent most of the money they made from the sale on their house on the new place they’ve bought in Colorado. (The closing hasn’t happened yet because their lawyers, Teresa’s sister and brother-in-law, are on vacation in Aruba.)
Teresa said that her parents and her nephew are devastated by the move because they’re so close to her aunt and uncle, who are gung-ho about moving West.
Many of Teresa’s friends, like Diane and people from Fire Island, have decided to leave Manhattan since 9/11, either because of fear of another attack or the inconvenience of having apartments that are too close to Ground Zero.
I’m still feeling a bit exhausted, but I’m almost nauseated with hunger, so I’ll go down soon for some breakfast.
I knew that November’s cold here in the Northeast would be a shock to me, but experiencing it is a whole ’nother thing, and I’ve barely done that yet.
*
3 PM. I’m feeling so out of it today because I feel I’m not going to be able to adapt to the chilly weather here.
Right now we’re probably at today’s high temperature, around 54°. I’m wearing a t-shirt under a corduroy long-sleeved shirt under a sweater, and I’ve been shivering much of the day.
Because it had been so hot in Arizona lately, it’s no wonder that I can adjust to this change in climate, but I’m depressed because I think most other people would be more resilient than I am.
Okay, part of it is not sleeping enough and the time change. When I came here from Arizona in the summer of 2000, I had a day or two of total mishigass before I adjusted – but then the weather was warm, as it was early July.
I know that Teresa and Paul don’t keep the house toasty-warm. They set the thermostat at 68°, but that shouldn’t freak me out as much as it does.
I’ve been unable to do much today except chat with Teresa as she went about her household chores. I guess I need time, patience, and a good night’s sleep. I could barely skim the newspaper today.
After writing this morning’s diary entry, I went downstairs at 7 AM, just as Paul was about to leave to vote – for a change, he was voting for a Democrat, Glen Cove Mayor Tom Suozzi, for Nassau County executive – and then go to work.
Teresa showed me pictures of Cat’s baby, who’s very cute; she encourages Paul to stop by there often, and he loves being a grandpa.
After 9/11, P.J. was laid off and is collecting about $350 in unemployment while making about $500 more a week working for Neil off the books. He’s also taking classes at Empire State College.
Jade is now living in Garden City with two of P.J.’s friends. Teresa says that Jade, P.J. and Paul are all on Paxil now because “the whole family suffers from anxiety and attention deficit disorder.”
But who knows? Doctors prescribe SSRIs like they’re candy these days. Of course, I take my Triavil, and a year ago I was also on Paxil.
On Election Day last year, I had my first session with Susan. I was lucky to get a sympathetic psychologist, because God knows, I didn’t find Beverly Reinhart or that psychiatrist, Dr. Mitchell, all that helpful.
As screwed up as I’m feeling today, I’m still not the complete wreck I was a year ago – at least I hope not.
I actually don’t feel particularly anxious today. I’m just cold and tired and confused and fuzzy. My teeth have stopped hurting.
I did manage to email Ronna, Josh, Alice and Elihu, who sent me a photo of Roger (“my reason to keep on trucking”) and told them I’d call in a day or two when I felt better adjusted.
I also went shopping, taking Teresa’s Acura, though I found that Farmers Bazaar was closed today as it prepares to become a Stop & Shop. So I went across the street, where Stop & Shop’s current store closes on Saturday.
Although I have a VCR in my room and a Body Electric tape (but no weights), I didn’t exercise today.
Teresa just came into the house from the post office and store, so I’m going to go downstairs and chat with her again.
*
10 PM. I’m feeling tired. I just left Teresa in the living room, where we were watching TV. Earlier we went to the laundromat to pick up a rug she washed and dried. Then I stayed downstairs until now.
I got an email from Pat Jason, who said my references were all excellent, but the faculty was concerned that I’m not a member of any State Bar.
That was no surprise to me, but she asked if I had taken the Multistate Bar Exam, if I’d passed it, and if not, would I be willing to take it? I said I absolutely would.
Of course I’d already know this would be the sticking point in my being hired. Well, at least I’ll know that I was really seriously considered for the job.
I thought Pat’s email was going to be a rejection note. So it appears I’m still in the running; otherwise, she wouldn’t have asked the question about my willingness to take the bar exam.
Paul came home around 5 PM and we had dinner around 6:30 PM. After just two weeks on 10 mg. of Paxil, Paul says he feels better.
We put a fire in the fireplace for a while, and although I’m still cold, I think I’m starting to get used to the weather. Tomorrow is supposed to be a little warmer anyway.
Teresa and I watched That 70s Show, The Simpsons and Frasier, but I couldn’t really stand to watch her favorite channel, HGTV, the House & Garden network. The last thing I want to know about are window treatments – but of course, like food, 
that stuff is Teresa’s life.
I don’t know anyone who cares less about design and interior decoration than I do, and I’m even gay, for God’s sake.
I can hear the LIRR train coming through now.
Although it’s early by Teresa and Paul’s standards, I think I’m going to get into bed under lots of blankets and see if I can sleep any tonight.
The results in the New York mayor’s race are tight.
Wednesday, November 7, 2001
5:30 PM. Either my exhaustion last night or the Ambien I took put me out for seven solid hours of sleep, culminating in a dream that was more prescient than usual because I was on the subway in the dream, and today I was on the subway in real life.
I did feel nervous this morning, with a burning feeling in the pit of my stomach. Walking to the station, I took the 9:37 AM train into the city, telling Josh I would meet him for lunch.
On the LIRR, I listened to WNYC-FM, where they were discussing Mike Bloomberg’s victory in the mayoral race: a surprise since he’d been trailing Mark Green in the polls for weeks.
But Giuliani’s endorsement and $50 million in ads had to have helped Bloomberg, along with Green’s veiled racism in his runoff with Ferrer. I was in Los Angeles for their mayoral election on June 5, and here I am in New York City for the mayoral election five months later.
I got off the IRT at Chambers Street, as I didn’t think it would go any further, and when I got out, I could already see police barricades letting only certain cars southward. I walked west and south following a crowd of people who were obviously trying to see what they could see of Ground Zero.
Early on I could see the twisted, crumpled frame of the building across from the twin towers, but as I wrote Vincent and Sat Darshan, I don’t know what to say about what I saw.
Korean women had set up little stands selling World Trade Center memorabilia and flags, and people from out of town – many seemed like foreigners – were taking photos, though of what, I’m not sure.
I got about as close as Broadway a few blocks south of Chambers Street. I don’t know the street names there – Duane, Murray, Reade, whatever – but you couldn’t get close enough to see the rubble, just the absence of the twin towers.
I consciously avoided thinking about the collapse of the buildings or that anyone who died there evaporated so horribly; otherwise, I would have had a giant panic attack. So I just felt numb, the way I might feel seeing a concentration camp and trying not to comprehend the enormity of the tragic inhumanity of it all.
The air was a bit smoky, but I saw only two people wearing face masks. Businesses seemed open or about to reopen.
St. Paul’s, now being used only by and for the rescue workers, had lots of sheets or banners around the outside of the church, along with hanging felt pens, with which people wrote RIP and encouragement to the rescuers, and more sickeningly, calls for revenge. I didn’t write anything but watched others write where they were from and stuff like “God bless…”
There were concrete barricades everywhere. I needed to call Josh, but few pay phones were working.
City Hall Park was closed, but I found a phone near there, and Josh told me to meet him at the Franklin Street subway kiosk on West Broadway.
I had time, so I had a tall (small) iced tea at a Starbucks on Broadway.
Josh was waiting for me when I arrived at Franklin Street. He was wearing only a white shirt with no jacket while I was bundled up.
It actually was a bright, brisk day. Certainly the fall colors of the foliage out here on Long Island are amazing: it’s been years since I’ve seen golden, russet and ruby-red leaves like those I saw on the train rides.
Josh looked fine, though his blond hair is turning white. We ate at a Malaysian restaurant right next to the subway entrance, and I had noodles with peanut sauce.
He told me that Gabrielle has been in therapy, and perhaps because of that, she and Josh are getting along well, though he feels he still can’t trust her.
But she’s apologized to him for a lot of things that happened, and she and their son are coming to New York in ten days.
The boy, Josh said, is a cheerful child who’s always singing. “He’s such a pleasure to be around that I can’t fault the way Gabrielle is raising him,” Josh said. “He obviously doesn’t get his cheerful nature from me.”
Josh still hasn’t closed on his parents’ co-op, but the couple who bought it got their mortgage approved by the bank. He goes to Sheepshead Bay most Saturdays to check on the place and to visit his aunt and cousin. He is close to his relatives and wants his son to meet his family.
The boy calls him “Daddy,” but Josh is uncertain he associates the phone Josh with the guy who has visited him in Germany.
Josh mentioned that while he was checking out the Social Security website for some of his relatives, he found an Allan Cooper who was born in 1952 and died in 1990. We both assume that Allan died of HIV/AIDS.
As for me, Josh said I look perfectly fine and that anyone in my position, with such an unstable life – no job, no home, debts, moving from place to place – would naturally be anxious. He told me I should stop measuring my myself against what happened to me last fall and winter.
I walked Josh back to work. His building, which holds not only the department of correction but important MCI WorldCom long-distance lines, is surrounded by barricades and cops because it’s a terrorist target.
I got back on the subway and went uptown. Because I had over an hour to catch for the 2:15 PM train back to Locust Valley, I went to 86th and Broadway, my old stop when I lived with Teresa. (During the ride, I spotted one of the newest subway cars making a test run.)
It felt really odd being on the subway again, especially in November, but it reminded me of when I lived with Teresa in the fall of 1984, 1985 and 1988.
I miss being a New Yorker. Until recently, I didn’t even know there was a W subway line.
Walking down Broadway, I passed familiar places like H&H Bagels, Zabar’s, the deli on 86th and the diner on 85th, along with newer stores.
At the Barnes & Noble on 82nd Street, I found Vincent’s novel in paperback and place the copies of it face out rather than on their spines. Surprisingly, my Silicon Valley Diet was already face-out. I was just glad it was there.
Getting the subway on 79th Street, I took it to Penn Station. The LIRR ride back to Locust Valley was quiet but tedious; still, I liked seeing the fall scenery.
Friday, November 9, 2001
9:30 PM. I just returned home after going out to eat in Douglaston with Teresa and Paul.
I was a little anxious about going, but I decided not to be such a stick-in-the-mud, so when Teresa asked if I join them to meet Connie and Peter and their friend Marsue at a Tex-Mex place in Great Neck, I agreed.
The traffic on Northern Boulevard was horrendous, and Connie called to say that the restaurant had a one-hour wait and we should meet them near the Douglaston train station at B.K. Sweeney’s.
In the car, Teresa and Paul were griping and sniping at each other the whole trip. The traffic was bad, and then we had a horrible time finding parking.
But it all ended well and we had a pleasant meal. Connie and Peter told us all about their trip to Aruba. (Last night Teresa and Thomas picked them up at JFK.)
Everyone seemed to disapprove of Teresa’s aunt and uncle moving to Colorado. I also heard more than I wanted to know about Thomas’s breakup with his most recent girlfriend and the usual gossip and restaurant talk.
For dinner I had the wrap du jour, but I ate too much and right now I fear having the kind of nausea-filled days that I had this summer in this house.
During coffee, I started to feel a bit sick or panicky, but I managed to stifle it, and right now I feel just a little gassy. However, I don’t expect to sleep as well tonight as I have the past few nights.
When Paul and I were alone last night, he was in a good mood because he had an offer for his truck and sander. After 26 years, he wants to retire from his snow route. I also think that Paxil has made Paul much more relaxed and cheerful.
Of course, he’s on so many different medications because of his blood pressure and heart that it’s hard to tell how much any one drug affects him. But Paul seems happy with the care that Leon gives him.
Paul confided in me that he’s thrilled that Jade is out of the house. He said that Jade was always in some way only pretending to be friendly with Teresa: “She won’t appreciate what Teresa has done for her until she’s about 50 or so.”
Paul also told me he knows more about Teresa’s past than she thinks he does.
Last night I went to bed at 10 PM and slept soundly. At 3:30 AM, I thought I was up for good, but I took a Triavil and went back to sleep and had one of the sweetest dreams I’ve had.
In the dream, I was living in a small town on the Oregon-Washington border, where Mark Cull and Kate Gale and other incredibly nice, interesting, artistic people were my neighbors.
What I liked in the dream was the feeling that I was a part of a community – which, of course, is something I always wanted. The absence of any community in Arizona has caused me much unhappiness.
This morning Teresa said that I could take the car to Farmers Bazaar, now reopened as a Super Stop & Shop, if I went right away because she was going to meet Sandy at 9:30 AM. I had just exercised, so I took my shower when I returned home.
About an hour later, I walked to the station and to the 10:37 AM train into the city. With no morning Klonopin for the third day in a row, I felt a little anxious, but the feeling passed.
I told myself not to worry about the future but to immerse myself in the present and recall all the past happy times that being in New York in November reminded me of.
At Penn Station, I took the IRT to Times Square and then transferred to the Q train, taking it to its last stop at 57th Street and Seventh Avenue. Outside, it was windy and cold.
After taking the 57th Street bus for two blocks, I walked past Bergdorf Goodman and the Plaza and the carriage horses and transferred to the M3 bus down Fifth Avenue.
From the windows of the buses, I could see Carnegie Hall, the Brooklyn Diner, Tiffany’s, FAO Schwarz, Lord & Taylor (which was starting to be decorated for Christmas), the diamond merchants on 47th Street, and the unadorned but already installed Christmas tree by the Rockefeller Center skating rink.
I remembered nice winters in Manhattan and things like going to the movies and museums with Ronna, who last evening said this email: “DEAR RiCHiE, i LOVE RiCHiE. – ABIGAIL.”
It’s so cool that 29 years after going out with Ronna, I got a love letter from her four-year-old daughter.
I wrote back: “DEAR ABiGAiL, I LOVE YOU TOO. – RiCHiE.”
Going past the Public Library lions, I thought about Lola Szladits and how kind she was to me during my visits to the Berg Collection. I remember the time she let me hold and read that letter from Henry James to Leslie Stephen, the father of Virginia Woolf and Vanessa Bell.
God, there are memories for me everywhere in Manhattan.
I got off the bus at 14th Street and walked to Sixth Avenue, where I went underground from the station for the F train to the platform for the L train and then through the passageway to the Seventh Avenue IRT to get to the 34th Street/Penn Station stop.
Walking around Herald Square, I was looking for a Wendy’s to get a baked potato. But where I thought there once had been a Wendy’s there was now a McDonald’s that had a sign that saying “The McVeggie Burger Is Here.”
Instead, I went to the Starbucks on the corner of Seventh Avenue and West 36th Street, where I had tea and read a Wall Street Journal someone had left.
Yes, wandering around Manhattan’s streets and subways for two days has made me feel like a New Yorker again.
More emotional than going to Lower Manhattan for me was the display I saw in Penn Station at the LIRR concourse as I drank a bottle of Samantha’s carrot-orange juice I bought and listened to a fiddler..
It was a wall of posters and flyers that people put up after 9/11.
The “missing” posters had people’s names, photos, vital statistics (age, height, weight, ethnicity, tattoos or jewelry) and where they worked: the floor of Tower One or Tower Two and which company, Aon or Cantor Fitzgerald or Nomura Securities or whatever.
There were also posters that came afterward, when people understood that everyone was dead: notices of memorial services or funds for victims’ kids.
One of them really got to me. It began: “My name is Marc and my friend Joey worked on the 105th floor.”
Marc told how he posted missing signs for Joey after the tragedy, thinking like a graffiti artist about the best places to put them so they’d be noticed. It made him feel better be doing something. At 26th and Lex, some people saw him and said, “We hope you find your friend.”
For eleven years, from when he was 5, Marc spent every afternoon at Joey’s house till Marc’s parents came back from work. Joey taught Marc (“a dorky kid”) to act cool, how to talk to girls and other stuff, and Marc finally wrote, after talking about Joey’s memorial service and his parents and girlfriend that “I have cried so much I feel empty inside.”
There was a photo of a boy about six years old and under it, “Joey, 1974-2001.” Well, I started crying, as did the woman standing next to me.
Passing the soldiers in their drab green camouflage uniforms holding big black rifles as they guarded Penn Station also made me feel weird.
On the long train ride home, through the transfer at Mineola, I was writing a story in my head, but I don’t know if it will ever come out in reality.
Is it possible to write fiction about 9/11? Maybe not. But maybe I should write a story about just that.