Fiddley Gomme - I Heart NYC

Leaving New York Never Easy It's Tearing Me Apart

Pete — Wed, 12 Dec 2007 23:57:46 -0500

"Are you sure you're OK?"

She asked me twice just to be sure. I was OK. I am OK. Really. But Donna was observant to recognize that a little part of me had been broken that morning. A tiny little fantasy crushed by circumstance and bad timing.

"We've been struggling with this decision and while we feel you're still a strong candidate for this position, the timing isn't quite right for us with the current match of project load", the email from New York said.

In other words, I didn't get the job because they need someone to start right away instead of in six or eight weeks when I would be available to make the move to the east coast. When you read an email like that you don't digest the part about being a strong candidate and please be in touch and all that. All you consume is the rejection. The part that says, "you're not exactly what we want."

Now, at least, we are able to move on with the life we've put on hold here in Salt Lake waiting to know about this opportunity. See, in the past few weeks, as I've waited and interviewed and waited and interviewed, I've been on pause. As if, like the hero in an action movie, I jumped to make my scissor kick move and lingered in mid-air while bad guy's bullet whizzed past my face. As new projects at work came along, the ones I knew would come to me after I would have moved, I feigned interest without fully engaging myself in the moment.

Likewise, as Donna and I considered Christmas gifts for the girls, we found ourselves unable to commit to anything at all. Should we buy new skis and snowboards for our winters here in the Rocky Mountains? If we get the big doll house will we have room for it in the Brooklyn apartment? Would we know about the job in time to get the kids Broadway theater tickets for their stockings?

But in many ways, we were living something of a compartmentalized double life. We were dreaming of our adventure to the big city while simultaneously denying ourselves the indulgence of the fantasy by casually talking about our summer plans as if there weren't a tornado roaring towards our life ready to turn our lives upside down. As if admitting to ourselves that we may move would be simply too enormous to digest.

But all that is now of no consequence. For now, at least, we're not going anywhere. I can rededicate myself to my job here. The job that absent the New York skyline is, in every way, my dream job. Now we can just go ahead and send the check to renew our Utah license plates. I can talk about next season's shows at the theater as if I'll really be available. And in those ways, I'm glad to have a conclusion.

And now I can brew that batch of beer I've been holding off making because I wasn't sure if I'd have to move it when it really needed to be sitting quietly undisturbed in the basement. Ah, this little suburban life here in Salt Lake isn't exactly where I thought I'd be if you'd asked me fifteen years ago. No. It's really much, much better.

Land Of Make-Believe

Pete — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 15:54:26 -0400

When I was younger I remember learning about faith at church. One teacher presented a challenge for the class. "How do you know New York City is real if you've never seen it?"

I'm here to tell you, I've seen New York City and it isn't real. It's all a pretend fairy tale. A reality show passed off as life using clever movie cliches and made-up languages on the subway. Counterfeit reality.

Murray Hill Market

It is a place where north feels like south and where east changes to west while you're standing on the corner waiting for the light to change. It can't be possible to turn left three times and still be walking the wrong direction. Except in New York. Because New York is fake.

If New York were real then there would be a Kinko's right where my iPhone said it would be. If it were real then there wouldn't be bathrooms in Frank Lloyd Wright designed museums where you have to sit sideways on the toilet to keep from banging your knees into the elegantly curved wall. If it where real a bottle of water would not cost the same as an entire six-pack of beer from the Utah State Liquor store.

The only place in the Guggenheim they let you take pictures

Only in a fake city could I see rat the size of a cat one second and a dog in purse the next. And only in a pretend place could I go from having a real conversation with myself about whether or not it would be better to sleep where I had arranged or on a bench in the park to having a kitschy spa hotel room fall from the sky into my lap. And only made-up places have lines painted on the roads merely for suggestion rather than as actual delineation.

And what kind of a real city has a Kander and Ebb musical starring David Hyde-Pierce where I can get a half-price, front-row seat five minutes before curtain? Not any real city I know of. No, this place is fictional.

I must be on the front row

Though, if New York really isn't really real who could possibly have been clever enough to make it up? And if they had, where did they come up with that outrageous accent and why didn't they think to have better cell phone coverage?

If I Can Make It There

Pete — Mon, 15 Oct 2007 18:09:23 -0400

There are about eleventy-two copies of this email in my outbox.

Please consider me for your [fill in name of exciting-sounding job here] position. I believe I would an excellent fit for this position. I am looking for a position that pays [an amount adjusted for ridiculous Utah v. Manhattan cost-of-living inflation] per year plus medical and retirement benefits.

Attached is a cover letter and resume. I am available for an in-person interview in your New York City offices on either Monday, October 22 or Tuesday, October 23.

--Pete Dunn

Will It Float?

Pete — Mon, 01 Oct 2007 17:22:15 -0400

I'm not getting all giddy or anything yet. In fact it's probably way too early to even be talking about it. But I may or may not be applying for a job I'm pretty excited about in New York City.

I'll know more details about the position tomorrow like... umm... does it pay enough for me to eat and stuff. I am exactly qualified for the job and I know I would kick its ass. The company also does work I could get very excited about. Some might even call it important work but I wouldn't go that far.

This may be nothing at all. My resume may find its way to the bottom of some dusty inbox, never to see the light of a beautiful, elegant, Manhattan autumn day. But for me, even applying is something. It says that I believe in myself enough to at least consider this an acceptable risk.

It's A Gangsta Menace

Pete — Thu, 27 Sep 2007 19:24:40 -0400

I sat in the passenger seat of the rented SUV with the windows down, snapping pictures as we came to the red light at the intersection of 45th and Broadway... Times Square. As we pulled to a stop, this dude came right to the door of the car, stuck his head well into my personal space and asked, "Hey! You guys like hip-hop?"

I was dressed for the theater in the only dress shirt I own. I am, it should be pointed out, the whitest person you've ever met.

"Yes. I love hip-hop. It's all I listen to."

He shoved a CD in my face. A CD featuring a lovely portrait of Chedda Boy himself and two smoking 9mm handguns. "It's A Gangsta Menace C-Boy". His mother is very proud, I'm sure.

"Remember me. I'm gonna be famous."

There was an awkward pause. Awkward in the way that while I paused, he stood there with his head still inside the car. Awaiting my reaction, I presumed.

"Any donation is welcome."

Ah. He was asking for money. I fumbled through my wallet, hoping not to make a scene of the stack of twenties and handed him five dollars.

As we sped away the only adieu I could muster was, "Thanks, brutha." Our trip back to Connecticut up the Westside Highway was orchestrated with the rhythmic stylings of "Knock Knock Twice" and "It's Money In Da Hood".

What? You didn't think I'd shell out five bones for a CD and not listen to it, did you?

Who Are You And What Have You Done With My Wife?

Pete — Mon, 24 Sep 2007 17:45:17 -0400

Last week, after I got back from New York, I was flooded with a rush of emotions. Some of which had everything to do with my trip and my personal regret about not having followed my dream to be the cliche struggling actor, scraping by in the city. Others had been festering for a while and just came along for the ride once the gates were opened. Still others were nothing new and are the same old things that always get thrown into the mix.

It's no secret that Donna and have more than our share of painful history together. It's also not news to any regular reader of this site that, while each of us has done a lot of work and come a long, long way, it's very likely that there will never be a time when we are free from the burden and hurt of those common experiences. There are some issues that no amount of therapy will help us overcome.

The long and the short of it is that while Donna is a terrific person for whom I have a great deal of love I most often feel like we each spend a lot of time disappointing each other. And while that's certainly not unique to our marriage, the combination of those incompatibilities and our rocky history might make it hard for either of us to get close enough to each other for either of us to ever be as happy as we might be apart. Does that make sense?

Towards the end of last week, as the culmination of these factors made me an intolerable ass to be around, I let on that I was having these thoughts and feelings. And while Donna admits to sometimes feeling the same things, she was understandably devastated and hurt to hear it out loud. The result of that discussion was what I can only describe as a renewed effort on her part to be more expressive.

Since last week she has become open to the idea that living and working in New York might be something of an adventure. And while a move to the big city isn't extremely likely possibility, she is clearly acting outside of her normal bubble.

Donna's also making an effort to participate more in my reality. She spent most of Friday evening backstage cavorting with the cast. She even brought beer. Which she stood in line in a public grocery store to buy. You may also have noticed her increased participation on here as well as on Twitter. I think she's had a sense that this internet world is a big scary place full of Democrats, academics, hippies and other inherently evil people.

Let's all prove her wrong, OK? I mean, yes, you're all a bunch of liberal, free-thinking hippies but you're all super nice, right?

There's also been some other surprisingly unsettling changes in her behavior. She has decided to become much more sexually expressive. All weekend between pestering me for physical attention, she made some minor changes to her underwear routine and converted the shag rugs to hardwood floors. Oh and suddenly and without warning I'll find her doing things to herself and me that would make Spencer Kimball blush.

I say this is all unsettling because it is a complete change in direction. I have been put off-center by it to the point that I don't know quite how to react. Of course I like what's happening and I want to be positive and supportive. On the other hand, I don't completely trust her sincerity and I am taken off-guard by it.

She told me this morning that she's really making an effort to find out who and what she wants to be. I, for one, can certainly understand how difficult and exciting that can be.

Here's wishing her luck on her journey.

Fuggetaboutit

Pete — Wed, 19 Sep 2007 19:09:34 -0400

I've spent the last 24 hours, or so, scheming a way for me to live and work in New York City. If you had asked me when I was half the age I am now what I would be doing when I am the age I am now, I would have said, "living, working, starving, whatever in New York City".

I've hearted NY since I first visited the summer I was fifteen years-old. That city is alive and dirty. Sexy. It scares me and intoxicates me all at once. Now, every time I stand in Times Square and watch the throngs of people press into the theaters at 7:45 while cardboard-scented steam seems from the manholes, I am transported back to that summer. I am filled with my dream to starve my way from audition to audition.

Coming home, I leave a part of myself there. Maybe someday I'll get a chance to go back and find it.

Why Can't I Quit You Joe Edwards?

Pete — Thu, 31 Aug 2006 19:52:55 -0400

In the summer of 1989 I took a two-week trip to Washington DC, Philadelphia, and New York City with a group of about 20 theater students. At fifteen, I was the oldest kid in the group but still not nearly old enough to realize that I was a complete idiot.

Being too cool to hang with the younger kids I took the opportunity when I could to do a few things on my own. One afternoon, I stood in line at the TKTS booth on Times Square and bought last minute tickets to a matinee of Les Miserables.

After the show, being the drama fag I was, I waited by the stage door to meet the players. I stood there, program and pen in hand, greeting each actor as they stepped onto 53rd street into the afternoon sun. Everyone was very nice. Nicer than they had to be.

The late, legendary Laurie Beechman, Natalie Toro, Craig Schulman, and the rest were all accommodating in signing autographs, answering questions, and all the other things I could think of to bother them. One actor in particular seemed to take particular interest though. Joe Edwards . Joe asked if I was interested in having a look around the stage, dressing rooms, and other private areas of the theater.

I was thrilled. For me, simply setting foot on a real live Broadway stage was a dream come Joe. As I stood front and center on the gigantic, 6 million dollar, revolving stage, I dreamed of performing there for a packed house one day. I saw the dressing rooms and the costume shop too. I lingered as long as I could until the stage manager announced to the handful of actors and visitors still hanging around that it was time to clear the theater. I thanked Joe as he walked me back to the stage door.

"Hey, would you like to grab lunch one day while you're in town?" he asked me as I opened the door to leave.

"Seriously?" It obviously did not occur to me at the time what interest this man in his late twenties could possibly have with me, a fifteen year old Mormon drama student from Utah.

"Sure, I have rehearsal tomorrow afternoon but call the back stage phone after 2," he instructed.

"I sure will. Talk to you then."

The next day, I stayed behind as the rest of the tour group headed downtown to see the Statue of Liberty. Promptly at 2:01, I called the number Joe had scribbled in my program. A half-hour later, we were sitting in the corner booth of a cafe just around the corner from the hotel. What an honor. An actual Broadway actor was having lunch with me. I had a barrage of questions.

"Do you still take voice lessons? How did you get your first break? Do you see a lot of the other shows? How much do you rehearse? What other shows have you been in?"

He answered all of my questions as if they were the most insightful he'd ever been asked. "Where do you live?" I asked.

"Upstairs. I live in this building."

"Cool. This is close to the theater. That's nice."

He had questions for me too. "How long have you been interested in acting? What is your family like? Do you have a girlfriend? What's your home town like? You're from Utah? You must be a Mormon."

My ears perked up as my bosom filled with The Spirit^tm. "Every member a missionary", I remembered Neal A. Maxwell's had said this at a fireside in my neighborhood just a few weeks earlier. This was supposed to happen. This was why I was in New York.

"Yes, I'm a Mormon", I proudly announced. I spouted a lame, under-rehearsed testimony. But the Spirit was s'strong that I know he was touched. I had a Book of Mormon in my backpack too. It was my own copy that I used for my personal studies. I was reluctant to give it up as I had marked it diligently as I followed along in Seminary and Sunday School. Nevertheless, I pulled it out.

"Here. Take this. I know if you read it, you'll know it's true just like I do."

It was about this time that Joe said, "Hey, I've got rehearsal and I've got to get going." He dropped a twenty on the table and got up to leave. I followed him out. I knew what was happening. He had felt the Spirit but didn't know what it was and it had made him uncomfortable.

We were standing on the corner in front of the coffee shop when I suddenly knew what to say, "Can I have some missionaries get in touch with you?"

"Umm... I guess so."

"OK, What's the address here?" I pulled my notebook and pen from my bag. Joe scribbled a PO Box address on the page and handed the notebook and the Book of Mormon back to me.

"See ya around, Pete. Good luck with your acting." He crossed the street and disappeared into the crowd.

I realized then that I had pushed too hard. I had scared him off. I never did attempt to send missionaries to his apartment.

I did, however write to the PO Box several times over the next few years. I apologized if I offended him. I said that I only wanted to be friends and didn't mean to push my religion on him. I wrote about shows I was performing in and asked about audition tips. Joe never wrote back in the 3 years I wrote to him.

Somewhere along the way I had forgotten about Joe. It wasn't until one day a few weeks ago that his name came into my mind. As I thought about the events that summer in New York City the reality of my brief encounter with Joe, something struck me as plain as day. What if Joe had been some lunatic trying to have sex with me and when he realized I was too straight, too Mormon, and too stupid to catch on, he gave me a made up address, crossed the street and never thought about me again. Thank God that wasn't the case.

I am laughing even as I type this thinking about how naive I was and how potentially dangerous the whole situation was. What the hell were my chaperones thinking letting me out on my own like that in a city that never sleeps?

UPDATE: January, 4 2007: A follow-up post and more discussion on this story.

NOTE: January, 5 2007: This story has been edited since it was originally published. I have substituted the actor's real name with an alias and removed the misstated implication that Joe ever behaved inappropriately towards me. I apologize if any false impression was given. Read my thoughts as well as a more full explanation.

UPDATE: January, 9 2007: A response from Joe's ex-wife.