Friday, December 30th, 2005

Strength & Metamorphosis

It’s funny how when you least expect it, life throws you a curve— a curve that pulls out a strength you never knew you had, a strength that changes you forever.

“Ow! That hurt like hell!” Man, one minute you’re nonchalantly ice-skating around in circles, just mindin’ your own business, then BAM: you open your eyes with a big ol’ lump on your head and a headache of all headaches. It was one of those “hit your head, out for a sec, think you’re okay, but you’re really not” kind of accidents.

I came to New York City as an artist from Washington, D.C. in 2004, wondering if I’d be working primarily in the stunt or the music industry. Up until my move, I’d been a performer: working as a singer, dancer, and actress in musicals, TV, and film, as a voice-over artist, as well as a stunt person for film and TV. The latter, along with voice-over work, had been my bread and butter for the past three to four years. In addition to all of this, during the last few years prior to my move to New York, I’d also begun writing music, beginning with two musicals and quickly moving to stand-alone songs. Although I felt after all my adventures within the entertainment industry, I’d found—or rather, gone back to—my calling as a singer/songwriter, I knew that the stunt business paid. It was unionized and not only paid well for each job, but also provided me with continuous residuals for airings on television, cable, and DVD. When I arrived in New York City, I figured I’d accept work as it came. As life would have it, stunts came my way and the music took a back seat.

Life was moving forward in my new city. I was getting work, I had an apartment (which is no small feat in The Big Apple), and was beginning to make friends in this fast paced city. Then I had that stupid accident: And no matter how I tried to ignore it, the accident laid me up for quite a while. Caught in a relatively helpless state of pain, I was subjected to a barrage of tests, injections, and drug experiments, all in the hopes that the intense pain would eventually end.

I found the accident physically tough, but nothing compared to the emotional pain I felt being alone with the recovery process in a brand new city like New York. I’d come from a family of supreme denial and complete absence from as far back as I could remember when it came to my well-being in times of pain or crisis. Other things my family was good at: emotionally being there— not so much. This fact made me both extremely independent and resourceful from a very early age. I’m sure they were doing the best they knew how at the time, and I firmly believe that people can and do change, but it didn’t make the experience any easier. Even with those highly honed coping skills, this was a test I felt completely unprepared for.

Since I wasn’t able to work, I found it lonely and tough to keep my head above water both financially and emotionally. Now, without a career, I tried to rekindle my self-worth. I found myself getting lost in my music, delving deeper and deeper into my creativity every day, writing more and more. At times I would venture out to try and play open mics at local bars and clubs. I often left, though, before I even went onstage because, like clockwork, after an hour or so, the pain would return. But I kept focusing on my music.

Luckily, after almost a year of what seemed like a slew of inept doctors poking and prodding me with no positive results, I was drawn to someone I now believe to be a healer, Alex. She and I became fast friends. Remarkably, Alex had started out as a professional guitar player, worked at numerous record labels in Nashville and New York City, and was now a practitioner of Feldenkrais, a specified branch within physical therapy focusing on retraining the body, in midtown Manhattan. Her story is also one of perseverance, much like many of her clients. Having battled rheumatoid all her life, she found Feldenkrais to be the only thing that allowed her to function pain-free. I believe now that’s what makes her such a master of healing, because she’s been there herself. Those who are in the healing arts and have actually, personally “been there” in one way or another have a special power, a gift that allows them to reach deep inside another and actually repair damage that even the most complex and advanced medical techniques could not even begin to touch. To that I can attest.

Alex is a tiny woman, with a unique combination of nurturing and feistiness in her spirit. She has shiny, bright white hair, cut to her shoulders, while her wrinkle-free face is practically flawless, giving her an elusive ageless look and energy. She’s almost elf-like with twinkly blue eyes. You’d think her former career might have been that of a nymph-like dancer rather than a concert guitarist, the way she darts about the physical therapy office, rarely staying in one place for more than a second when she’s not working on a patient.

One day, while in physical therapy, I remember mentioning to her that, since my first day in New York, I’d been curious about performing in the New York City subways, but had always been too scared to do so. I’d always been curious, even before the accident, but I was now taking the thought seriously. I was now entertaining the thought of singing in the subways to actually bring in some cash. “Yeah, but still, I’m really scared,” I’d repeat to Alex over and over while lying on the Feldenkrais table. “You should do it. What do you have to lose?” she assured me. I assumed her encouragement stemmed from her own inner strength and experience.

For almost three weeks, I’d ask myself the question, then Alex, and myself again: “Should I go? Should I do this?” Each time, I’d hem and haw and Alex would answer with conviction, “You should do it, Heidi. What do you have to lose?” For those three weeks I thought about what might be a logical answer to her question— what do I have to lose? I thought about this so I’d have a reason, a valid excuse not to go, since I was really timid at the concept of singing in the trains. And having put this quandary out to Alex and the universe, that dark and dirty place that felt so awfully intimidating and frightening, somehow still pulled at me.

At every session, I’d lie there thinking to myself about logical answers that could keep me from having to try this seemingly bizarre concept that somehow kept on tugging at me. It seemed so very foreign to everything I’d experienced and was trained to do up to this point and yet, despite what seemed to be the obvious oxymoron, I couldn’t seem to come up with any reason not to go. I finally mumbled to Alex during a session, “Probably nothing. I probably have nothing to lose by, you know, at least trying. At least trying it once.” And, who knows, maybe there’s actually something there for me. Something I don’t know about yet, I thought to myself, working hard at keeping the positive in the forefront. The truth is, I knew that by the end of those three weeks my entire savings would be gone and I was going to be trapped in a financial corner. New York City isn’t a place where one can even remotely survive without money. In that respect, trying out the “subway busker” thing (an artist who entertains people for money, usually by singing or dancing) grew more appealing every passing day.

I’d thought of multiple more run-of-the-mill type options for income, but I’m an artist: that’s where my heart was, what I’d been trained in, and what I do. I was still in too much pain to sit for hours in audition lines for musicals and operas. I could still only be up and out for about one to five hours at a stretch before I’d have to go home. I didn’t have the income to promote myself in the voice-over industry, which can cost thousands to get restarted in. So music, on my own, seemed to be my most ready and flexible option.

The accident drove home in a way I hadn’t really wanted to digest, the reality of how solo I was now in this huge bustling city. I don’t think anyone wants to digest that kind of stuff, but it forced me to “deal,” whether I liked it or not. In that context, Alex’s encouraging words and nudging to sing the trains meant more to me than she will probably ever know. She was truly the only one who knew what I was contemplating. She was the only one who I felt accountable to. So I latched onto her support and encouragement, finally allowing it to carry me underground. Once I decided that I was going underground, I knew I’d have to plan. I’d have to pick the right day to enter, the one day I felt strong enough both physically and emotionally to venture into the subways and take whatever they dealt.

Heeding the call of the underground, I finally got back under, excited to see my see my friends, to get back into the routine, and do what makes me happy.
I went straight to my first choice, the Uptown ACE at Times Square. Miraculously, no one was there. As I stood up after plugging in all my gear, Annette showed up to my left: “You just starting?”
“Yeah. I’ll be about an hour, hour and a half, tops. First day back after a while.”
“I hear that. Ok, so I’ll come back at six thirty. You’ll be here, right? I’m gonna go up to 59th Street ‘till then. Just make sure you’re here, though. Ok? I’ll be back at six thirty.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. See you then.” And Annette dropped a dollar into my case as I started in on my first tune. It felt good. I was glad to be back.
I was about an hour into singing when I smelled a pungent body odor that practically bowled me over. I finished my tune and took a moment to see where the obvious lack of deodorant was coming from; oddly, I could see no one of suspicion. Normally the smell and the “perpetrator” are pretty obvious. But this time, the source remained elusive. So I figured whoever it was must have already come and gone, and the odor was just their “gift” to the ACE. I turned my head back to my case and noticed three cops coming toward me: two women, both on the short side, looking oddly alike, and a tall man who walked with the swagger of a pimp. As they got closer, I realized the smell was the male cop. Damn, was this part of his MO? I thought as I tried hard not to breathe too much. Was this part of his intimidation tactic? If so, I’ve gotta say, it was kind of working. It was such a disconnect though, as he seemed like any other NYC Transit cop at first glance. He was tall, black, and almost looked as if he could have been a basketball player or other athlete. But the punch he packed had nothing to do with sports. I’d never have guessed from the visual that he didn’t know how to bathe or use deodorant. It’s a surprise every minute, down under.
“Do you have an ID?”
In order to escape the odor, I bent down to platform level and rummaged around as long as seemed reasonable to give him what I had. All I had with me was my insurance card, as I’d cleaned out my wallet at home, leaving all my stuff there, and somehow that was still stuck in there. “Here.” I reluctantly stood up to face the cop and his BO.
“You know you’re not allowed to play here, right?” he asked, as his breath suddenly hit me harder than his underarm odor. Every plosive and “h” made me feel as if I was going to hurl.
“No, I didn’t know,” I said, wondering what exactly he was talking about. Did he mean the amp? Had things gotten really tight in the trains while I was MIA, writing and recording? Then I realized as I handed him my insurance card that my new business card for the book had come out too, and was stuck to the back. Oh, shit! I thought. Now I’m done. I mean, there’s a picture of me in the subway, train whizzing by with my guitar in hand, and the card reads “The Subway Diaries.” If they go on the website I’m cooked, as it opens with talk of cops. Oddly, however, all he said was, “This all you have?”
“Yes,” I responded, now, honestly, getting kind of scared as to what they were going to do with me. “What’s your date of birth?” he asked. I told him and the guy actually took out a ballpoint pen and wrote on my card. My jaw dropped and my mind began to race. Hey, that’s my personal property there you’re defacing, scribbling on, and running your pen back and forth over to try and make the ink start. What are you doing? What’s going on here?
The stinky male cop handed my cards to one of the female cops, who started up the stairs to who knows where, my documents in hand. My moment of comparatively “fresh” air I was breathing while my head was turned away from Officer Halitosis, was, however, short-lived. “Are there any warrants out for your arrest?” My arrest? A warrant for my arrest? Are you crazy? Look at me, I’m singing! Once again, my mind went crazy as I stood silent, sweating, everyone staring at me, and his breath killing me word by word. But somehow, I knew deep inside this was not a person I could protest to without getting deeper into whatever it was I happened to have stumbled into.
“Ummm…no!” I said quietly but emphatically back, trying to figure out through osmosis or some non-verbal communication what the heck was going on. But all I kept getting was harassment and stench.
“Well, we’re checking now,” and he motioned up the stairs where the female cop had taken my now destroyed insurance card and business card, which I was still sure would get me into some real trouble. “And if there is a warrant out, we’re putting you in jail,” the stinky officer continued. What? What? What? My mind went fast again. Jail? What? Me? For what? No! Jail? Are you kidding me? But I just stood silent, clenching my teeth, as all these thoughts went racing through my head, clambering to have a voice. Everyone was staring. The entire platform. I wondered what they were wondering. I wondered if they thought I was some secret criminal who’d been posing as a busker for all these years and now the cops had posed some kind of “sting” operation and had finally closed in, right there in front of their eyes on the Uptown ACE. I wondered if they thought that, or if any of them actually knew what we go through day in and day out just to sing.
“Where do you live?” Officer Halitosis said, once again torturing me with every expelled breath. I didn’t want to tell him. He concerned me, frightened me, and my instinct was not to tell him my address. So, I made something up. “East side or west side?” Again, I made it up. “What’s your apartment number?” We’re just standing here for God’s sake, you’re not filling out any forms, what do you need my apartment number for? Again, I blurted out a made up apartment, glad now that I had as there seemed zero reason for him to ask any of this while we’re waiting to see if there were any warrants out on me, and if I should be arrested or not.
“C’mon, we’ll go upstairs.” I grabbed hold of my dolly and began to wheel it toward the bottom of the cement staircase as everyone on the platform continued to stare silently. “Here, I’ll help you,” he leaned in and said, completely out of character, as I began to lug it up the first step.
“No,” I said curtly back and leaned away from him, grabbing my gear with both arms. “No. No, thank you. I have it,” I repeated.
“Let me help you.”
“No, thank you. I have it,” I repeated adamantly, holding onto that “No” with steadfast determination, finally feeling as if with that one word I’d regained back a bit of my power and dignity, which up to this point had been completely stripped in the most intimidating and odiferous way. I lugged my gear, step by step, up to the top of the landing. I pulled it over to a corner of a railing where I felt somehow safer. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity. Officer “Take a Bath” and his female cohort were talking for a while, then the one who had my documents returned.
“You two make a great team, you know that?” he said to the two female officers as the one with the documents pulled out her pad and a pen. “We got ten of these guys today and only one got away. You really make a great team.” Ten? Ten?! You guys got ten musicians? Don’t you have anything better to do in the New York City subway system than harass, ticket, and arrest musicians? I looked down at my watch. It was six forty-five— Annette never came back. She always comes back, even just to say she’s going home and not going to sing. She always comes back. I knew then she was spending the night in jail. My heart sank and I began to boil inside. Just then, the female with my cards walked over and started to write on her pad. I’ve got to get out of this, I thought. I’d gotten out of the only other real “jam” I’d stumbled into a few years back with some tears and a bit of acting, but I was spent today and completely dehydrated from the heat, so no matter how I tried, I just couldn’t cry. I tried. I scrunched up my eyes a number of times in an attempt to get out of this, this whatever the heck was going on, but no-go. Nothing. I was too dehydrated to cry. Wow, never had that happen, I thought as I stood there, leaning on my guitar, sweating. I’ll start to just shake a bit and see what flies from that. “You better take some deep breaths, girl, ‘cause we can’t have you passin’ out or nothin’.” Right, you can harass me, you can accuse me of being a felon, you can deface my personal property, but no, “we” can’t have me passing out, now can “we?” I kept on shaking, kind of getting into the rhythm of it all. “So, what do you have? You got some kinda disorder or somethin’?” the cop with the pen asked. I just kept looking down and shook my head. “Is it gout?” Gout? Where on earth did she pull that one out from? Wow, I didn’t even know gout makes you shake. Ya learn something new every day, I guess. I’ll have to Google that when I get home. I shook my head again. “Is it, is it gastroenteritis?” Again, this cop’s got some inside information on “conditions” that I’ve been completely in the dark about. But, hey, good guess. She must be a frustrated quack physician. Thank God for all of us she’s wielding a pen, not a scalpel. Although the gun on her side was creepin’ me out as she continued to reveal her true, intellectual colours. (Or, should I say, the lack thereof.) I shook my head again, floored that she was pursuing this information, which had nothing to do with anything cop-related. And one would think she’d be concentrating on getting me out of there as quickly as possible—if something was truly going on with me, of course—not prying into what was making me shake and shiver. But no, she continued with the medical inquisition. “Is it, is it, is it…” She was obviously really trying hard to figure this one out. “Is it…” and she leaned in over her pad and pen and whispered, “Is it H1M1? You know, the ‘pig flu?’” Ok, I wanted to “H1M1/Pig Flu” this woman straight to Jersey at that point. What a nutcase. God, how I wanted to at least correct the “M-N” thing for the baton-wielding wannabe diagnostician. But I didn’t, I held my tongue. Barely. Damn, where is my tape recorder when I need it? Just then, the stinky one who was, gratefully, not within smelling distance but off to the side chatting with the other female officer, shouted, “What’s your address again?” Weirded out, I looked up, trying to remember to keep on shaking just enough while racking my brain to remember what I’d said to him down on the platform so I’d be consistent. “Yeah, yeah, what’s your apartment number?” Why this again? What’s this obsession with where I live? Somehow, I pulled out the same fake address I’d given him on the platform and repeated it to him again, all the while shaking. Man, this is a lot of work to get out of a $50 ticket, or worse, it seemed. That act in and of itself concerned me, though. What did he want with my address and apartment number? He wasn’t the one writing the ticket, yet he had to know. That freaked me out. Then the female cop finally spoke: “Ok, so, all you have to do is pay this ticket here to this address.” She handed me what was left of my two cards and pointed to the amount of $25 and the address. Yes! I’d gotten it down from $50 to $25 with the shaking/gout/gastroenteritis/H1N1 thing. I grabbed the handle of my cart and scurried toward the iron maiden that lets me out onto Eighth Avenue. Ok, that was not a good “Welcome Back,” in my book. Something’s afoot and I’ve got to figure it out. This is my work, this is my home, and this is my family they’re messing with.