When it all started, I was just an average Manhattanite. At least, I thought I was. I lived well below the national poverty line, but I went to fabulous parties with the rich and famous, I rode in limos, and my taste in food had become so accidentally refined that I experienced despair when I was faced with the food that most Americans eat every day of their lives. I chatted with Sandra Bullock in the bank line, I nearly knocked over Jodie Foster on the way to the ladies room. Just regular stuff, at least to me. I had decided one day (seriously, one day I just decided) to move to New York City and work backstage in some theatre or another. So, I did.
I’d imagined a new life, and there the new life was. Only it was even better than I’d imagined, except for when I had to talk to bitter actresses who would never ever ever never give up what they did because it was their very LIVES, but OH GOD, WHEN WOULD THEIR TALENT BE RECOGNIZED FOR THE BRILLIANT REVELATION THAT IT WAS? WHY DID THEY NOT GET AMERICAN EXPRESS COMMERCIALS? Wailing actresses with mascara tracks so constant as to be nearly permanent aside, it was a fun little life I’d imagined up.
But that was all before they tore down the old Loew’s 175th Street Theatre and what rose from the dust blocked out the sun.