I missed my cat.
I put on some Christmas music, took my cold medicine, blew my nose, and started to decorate my little tree. I started sniffling as Frank Sinatra promised to be home for Christmas, even if it was only in his dreams. I wouldn’t be going to be home for Christmas. I was stuck in New York City. Sick and alone. Because apparently, I was a dreamer. It felt more like I was suffering from an addiction. Like drugs or alcohol. Only my opiate of choice seemed to be my stupid dreams. A sick, twisted belief in myself. Possibly the deadliest drug on the streets. It was ruining my life. My belief in myself was about to put me out in the cold. I’d hit rock bottom. Where were my family and friends for the intervention? Where was the rehab facility for failed artists? Or at least a big room in the basement of a church where I could stand up and say, “Hi. My name is Dorrie and I’m in theatre.” And a roomful of vacant faces would look up from their coffee and cigarettes and greet me in unison, “Hi, Dorrie.”
But there is no such facility. There really should be, you know. Where are the artist grants to help us get out of this mess? To rehabilitate ourselves. I could learn a trade. I could glue things, maybe. Like that piece of cardboard inside your shoe. I could do that. The shoe comes by the assembly line, you put the glue on, and you stick it in there. I’d probably be really good at that.
I started thinking of the stereotype of Parisian artists in the 19th Century. Living in garrets and riddled with consumption. Only a garret in New York City would probably go for around two-thousand a month. I couldn’t even afford to live in a garret.
I missed my family. As crazy as they were, at least it was home. Safe. Comfortable. No cold illegal sublet with snowflakes occasionally wafting thru the cracks in the plastic tarp. Just warm and cozy---especially since last year when Mom finally took the plastic off the couch. Homemade turkey and lots of gifts under the tree. I wouldn’t get any gifts this year. A few pieces of poo in the cat box were the closest thing I came to a Christmas gift. My poor scared kitty. Even the dangling Christmas bulbs couldn’t lure her out after the collapse. I’d finally managed to sweep most of the debris to one side of the room. But was too depressed to spend Christmas Eve hauling bags of plaster and dry wall down five flights of stairs. Where was Heidi? How many hiding places could there be? It suddenly became an obsession. I had to find her. Call me crazy, but at that moment, I just wanted to pet my cat. As if somehow, it would be like rubbing a magic lantern, making everything all better. While my head was wedged under the bed, the phone rang.
“Dorrie,” the little voice said. “It’s Timmy.”
It was probably the most pathetic moment of my life. Because I was actually happy to hear his squealy, high-pitched voice.
“I heard about your job. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.”
“It’s not your fault, Timmy. You didn’t give them any money, did you?”
“No. I…I’m at work right now so I can’t talk. But it’s super, super important that I see you. Meet me at Macy’s in half an hour. Pretty please?”
What else did I have to do?
“I’m here to see Timmy,” I said to the elf at the entrance to Santaland.
“Who?
“Timmy Tinsel,” I clarified. “He told me to meet him here.”
“Oh! Tinsel’s friend,” she suddenly perked up. “Okay, just get in that line right there and he’ll be with you shortly.”
“But,” I said as I looked behind me. “That’s the line for Santa.”
“Timmy is Santa’s helper today,” she said as she waved me towards the line.
So, I got in the Santa line. I was still the tallest girl there. I looked at the little children around me. I could see the excitement in their eyes. What did kids want these days? In my day, a Barbie Dream House was a pretty big deal. I searched the crowd for a young dreamer like myself. But most of the kids seemed pretty level-headed. They hadn’t fallen prey to the addiction. Hadn’t bought from the playground Santa dealer.
“Dorrie!” Timmy waved and jingled his bells as he came running up. “Merry Christmas! I’m so happy you made it.”
“Timmy,” I said as I looked at him all bright and cheery. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. About…you know.”
“No. No. It’s good. I’m glad you did,” he replied, pulling me away from the kids for a private moment. “I am gay. But I never would have come out if it wasn’t for you.”
“Then why were you doing…all of that?” was the only way I could describe it.
“I grew up in a very…religious town. My family, too---they’re pretty religious. I used to get picked on in school, so they sent me to this camp every year and we prayed to have these feeling go away. I prayed
