“Come out to New York so I can shoot you!” he said excitedly.
I barely remembered him. Honestly, he was just evidence that my summer in LA went super well. So of course I said no to his offer! Jeez, who do you think I am??
But then, a few hours later he called back:
“Hey Laura! Come out to New York so I can shoot you!”
“I can’t just come out to New York. I’ve met you once!”
I’m not that impulsive. But apparently, he was. He started calling . . . every day. Multiple times a day.
It was always variations of: “I’m in New York, I still want to shoot with you! Come out here!” over and over again.
My family was starting to get annoyed. On one particular day, Damon had called four times, leaving a voice mail each time, as if we needed to be reminded what his call was regarding. My family had just sat down for a formal TV dinner and then . . . RINGGGGGGGG—
My dad, mom, and sisters all glared at me.
Colleen took a bite of corn on the cob. “I wonder who that is?”
My dad grumbled, “No one. Touch. That. Phone.”
RRIIIIINNNGGGGG.
We kept eating in silence until my dad got up, picked up the receiver, and yelled, “STOP CALLING, YOU PUNK! . . . mhmmm. Right. Fine.”
He hung up the receiver. “Some brand-new, never-heard-before information. Damon wants you to go to New York.”
I know what you’re thinking. “This dude sounds crazy, Laura! Block his number!” Hey, I hear you loud and clear. But at the time I thought Damon was harmless. It was flattering, really, that he wanted to photograph me! Not a red flag at all.
A few days later, Colleen and I got into a huge fight. I had worn one of her favorite shirts and “covered it with red wine.” I replied, completely factually, that her stupid face was the very reason I DRANK the red wine so who’s really to blame here. . . .
Now, I have NO IDEA WHY, but our civil, factual conversation turned into a yelling match. It wasn’t my fault! A.K.A. it was completely my fault! But suddenly, in the middle of it all, Colleen yelled this:
“I wish you would just leave!”
I clenched my jaw and said, “Well I don’t want to be here!”
“You know what?? You should go to New York. Just fucking GO. Just LEAVE.”
“Fine!!! I will go! Can I borrow money for a ticket!”
“Yes! Gladly!!”
It took me a second to realize what I had just agreed to. Shit. She bought me a one-way ticket to New York and I said the most menacing “thank you” I could muster up. I packed a bag, including her wine-stained shirt just to salt the wound a little. I guess I was going to New York.
I called Damon back. “Okay, I’m coming. I’ll be there in a week.”
There was a long pause on the phone . . . until I heard him say . . . “What??”
He really wasn’t expecting me to come. Whatever. It was going to be fine!
A week later, I passed my parents on my way out. My mom was reading in the dining room and my dad was sitting in his La-Z-Boy, watching CNN with a clenched fist.
“Bye, Mom, I’m going to New York to be a model.”
“Okay honey, have fun!”
My dad chimed in, too. “You’re going to kill it; you’re gorgeous.”
I yelled louder, for my sister to hear. “BYE, EVERYONE. I’M OFF.”
She yelled back. “Don’t fuck it up!”
I had one suitcase, one plane ticket, forty dollars in my pocket, and a napkin with Damon’s address written on it. I was off.
Here’s what I DIDN’T have: a cell phone or any kind of plan.
Looking back, I am now fully aware of how dangerous this was. This impulsive girl who hopped over to New York without a second thought is WAY DIFFERENT TODAY. Now, my idea of “dangerous” is binge watching Netflix until two a.m. because I might not get my full eight hours. (Good sleep is better than sex, you guys.)
But eighteen-year-old me was desperate for adventure. Which might just be a nice way of saying batshit crazy. Jury’s still out.
When I climbed off the plane at JFK Airport, I was basically a bright-eyed suburban girl hopping off a plane in the big city, carrying a big suitcase and even bigger dreams!
I was ready for my musical number to start. Hello angry people at baggage claim! Hello strange smells where they shouldn’t be! Hello homeless person squatting on the curb! The kindness of the city was everywhere! A friendly-looking middle-aged man with an exotic accent approached me, offering to drive me to my destination in his unmarked taxi. Shucks, how lucky am I!
I enthusiastically said yes as I politely asked him to watch my suitcase while I used the restroom. As I was peeing (and probably humming show-tunes to myself), I looked around the bathroom stall. Someone had written SUCK A DICK, GEENA on the wall. I suddenly noticed the traces of piss on the floor, the highly questionable brown smear on the stall door. Oh God, it’s disgusting here. Oh God, I let a random man watch my bag. Oh my God, oh my God. I wiped my vag and ran out as fast as I could.
He was still there, bag in hand. Whew. Great! This, of course, was a sign that nothing bad would ever happen to me! I hopped into his unmarked taxi and read the address of my—now wrinkled and torn—napkin, “Twenty-Second and Ninth, please.” Damn, I sounded official.
When we arrived, I asked the cabbie if he would let me borrow his cell phone.
I nervously called Damon.
“Hey! I’m outside your apartment.”
I anxiously waited in the backseat and looked around the busy street. Was that guy Damon? Nope. Was . . . that guy? It suddenly hit me . . . I didn’t remember what the fuck he looked like. He was definitely white. He had black hair. Or wait, was he blond and it was just dark outside? And . . . two eyes, for sure.
A twentysomething-year-old guy with disheveled hair and a beautiful face ran up to the cab, in shock. It was as if HE couldn’t believe I’d actually come. And he was wearing . . . bright red lipstick. Umm . . . lipstick? Now I was the one who was shocked.
“Laura!” he said.
He kissed my cheek, getting lipstick all over it. What had I gotten myself into?
We walked up four flights of seemingly never-ending stairs, and he opened the door to the smallest studio apartment I had ever seen. It was smaller than an elementary school bathroom. No furniture. Just a gross twin-size mattress on the floor.
The studio was decorated with wine bottles, ashtrays, and one green light. Which looks VERY MENACING, I MIGHT ADD.
I tried to diffuse my nervousness with a joke. “You okay? You’re looking a little . . . GREEN HA-HA!”
“What? No, I’m fine,” Damon said with concern.
“I’m talking about the light.”
“Oh, no. I’m not sick. It’s just the light.”
Right. This was going to be rough.
He picked up one of the wine bottles. “Want a drink?”
Oh thank God. Don’t mind if I do!
Soon enough, my drunk, naïve, Midwestern ass thought the green light was very, very cool; the apartment was cozy rather than suffocating; and the Frank Sinatra playing on a cassette player was intentionally hip rather than a random thing that Damon found on the street. This place was awesome!
I asked the man for whom I moved to New York why he was wearing lipstick. Maybe he was gay? Maybe the fact that I had no choice but to sleep on the same tiny mattress with a guy I’d met only twice wouldn’t be a big deal, because he likes men! Maybe I had nothing to worry about!