Thursday, April 29, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
How Leonard, Jerry, Malinda, Nicole, Erin and St. Benedict Saved My life
It is funny how the course of your life can turn on a dime.
In 1998, I was a college dropout struggling to become an interior designer. I smoked a pack and a half of Marlboro Reds a day and drank about five gallons of Diet Coke. At 5' 10" I weighed about 130 pounds and ate every day at Wendy's. A type 1 diabetic, I hadn't checked my blood sugar in two years and just took insulin to survive.
I worked at the most absurd design store, Abdiana Design Center. It was located in the 9 story Firestone building in downtown Kansas City. It's owner, Nick, scared the shit out of me. He, the oldest of five brothers, would berate his employees and allow his family to run roughshod over the store (once his younger brother, wielding a running circular saw chased a construction worker around the bedding floor.) I worked from 8 in the morning until 8 at night, driving to and from my mother's house 45 minutes away in Leavenworth, KS.
My life consisted of work, smoking and Diet Coke. It all seemed fine. I mean, I was 20 and the lead designer at a huge furniture store, that cool, right? I drove a Pontiac Sunbird convertible and spent money on clothes and shoes. I did not have any aspirations beyond this, life was done. I was a loser and my options were Abdiana or fast food, I chose Abdiana.
In late July, as I was driving to work, my nose began to hemorrhage. It was so bad that I spent 25 minutes shoving tissues up my nose while chain smoking on the side of I-70. This began to happen with a regular frequency, always on the way to work, inevitably ruining an expensive shirt (I took to wearing a t shirt while driving and changing once I got to work.) By August, I was crying uncontrollably as I drove home every evening. Most of my friends had gone off to college, many of them were extremely conservative Baptists who shunned me once I took up my Diet Coke habit. I listened to Natalie Merchant and cried, I smoked and cried, I bled and cried it was very exciting.
The last week in August 1998, I walked into work. Picked up my schedule for the day and began to make small talk with Nicole, the receptionist. As we were talking, I began sobbing. I cried so hard that she had to drag me to the far corner of one of the galleries to calm me down. I sobbed my loneliness, poverty and distaste for the life that I was living. Nicole answered, leave now and never come back. Dumbfounded, I said that I couldn't! I had a car payment, I had a raging Diet Coke and nicotine habit to maintain! Nicole countered that I "would DIE if I stayed." That did it for me.
Ten minutes later, I was driving back to Leavenworth, smoking with a new-found fervor. I called my mother and told her that for all intents and purposes I was having a nervous breakdown. She took it rather well and was supportive of the move away from working at Abdiana. She let me stay at home in slightly more than a catatonic state.
Once a week, I would drive to Walmart and purchase one carton of Marlboro's and a case of Diet Coke, that was pretty much it for about two weeks. One the third week of the nervous breakdown, I noticed that my nose had stopped bleeding and that I could avoid crying for the better part of most days. I set out on that week's Walmart run, I hated the whole process of going into the store, inevitably I would meet someone that I knew from school or church, they would ask what I was up to and I would reply "trying not to slit my wrists!" Most people failed to find the humor in such statements and so the trips began to occur later and later in the evening.
Despite my timing of 11pm, this week was no exception, as soon as I entered the door "Zakk Hoyt?" rang our from across the courtesy desk. It was Jerry, one of my mom's friends and the wife of a local theater director. "Zakk, is that you? It has been so long, you look so well!" I could not dodge the occurrence! "Jerry! How are you?" I bellowed back swallowing the bowling ball of introversion and promising myself an extra cigarette for the trouble of this pleasantry... Jerry and I talked for a while about nothing in particular when out of the blue she mentioned that her husband was directing West Side Story in Atchison, KS. She urged me to try out, noting that I had been "such a fine singer and actor in high school." I said thank you and left it at that grabbed my smokes and hightailed it out of Wally World!
A week later, a flier was taped to our front door:
AUDITIONS
West Side Story
Next Thursday and Friday
Atchison Commuity Theater
Jerry had added a note, reminding me that I had always been so talented in high school. I threw the flier away...
A week passed and on Thursday we got a call. My mom answered, it was Jerry. She wanted me to go to the auditions. My mother somehow convinced me to leave the house and drive the 25 minutes to Atchison. I smoked the whole way there. I must have smelled like a humidor or at the very least an ashtray.
I was completely unprepared. After a bout with a sexually harassing high school music teacher, I had abandoned music all together and taken up the current regiment of cigarettes and Diet Coke. I signed in and when asked what I would like to sing, I mentioned that I didn't have anything prepared. The accompanist handed me a book of Broadway favorites and told me to pick something that I knew. I had never seen West Side Story, didn't know a thing about the play, its music or characters so when filling out the paperwork I checked that I was interested in all roles that applied to my voice type.
I sat alone in the small theater. This was a joint production with the local college's opera workshop program. As always, they were short on male singers and thus the need to reach into the community. There were a lot of talented people, my age and younger for the most part. I sat for about an hour before my name was called. A slight flutter of nerves but no bleeding or urge to slit my wrists... As I mounted the stage, I announced that I would be singing "On the Street Where You Live" (the only song that I knew, sort of in the entire book of Broadway favorites.)
I hadn't warmed up, really I hadn't sung since I graduated from High School two and a half years prior. I had smoked, really nonstop all the way to the audition and hadn't had an ounce of water in years.
When my mouth opened, I was taken aback. It was good, actually, quite good. I remembered the song and eeked out some sort of dramatic interpretation. That was it... I drove home.
The next day the assistant director called and asked me to come back to sing some more and do some reading. My mom urged me to go and so I did. This time, I smoked a little less and dressed a little more presentably.
I was there for three hours, singing and dancing, reading and interpreting. I figured that I would be offered a chorus slot that I could easily turn down and then easily resume my chain smoking, nose bleeding, Diet Coke drinking life and at the very least get a job at the local McDonald's.
I drove home to Leavenworth and not ten minutes out of the car we received a call, this time I answered. It was the assistant director, she offered me the part of Tony. I had to ask her if it was a good role. She laughed and told me that it was the lead...
I took the part.
I quit smoking, got the soundtrack to the musical and began to learn my lines. I couldn't read music and as noted before, hadn't sung in years so it was an uphill battle.
I sang, I danced, I kissed Maria and was shot. The audience cried and we received many standing ovations.
In addition to ovations and a four page, full-color spread in the local newspaper arts section I got a huge scholarship to Benedictine, the college that co-sponsored the production.
Each semester at Benedictine, I made it to the Dean's list. I performed in everything that I could. I truly quit smoking, switched to Diet Dr. Pepper with an occasional water. I began checking my blood sugar, eating three meals a day and learned to read music.
Two years into my time at Benedictine, I became a Catholic and began to discern a vocation to the priesthood. God had other plans, I fell in love with Erin, now my wife and moved to Portland, OR. I finished my education as a Laurel's Scholar for the state of Oregon and was offered a teaching fellowship for my graduate work at PSU.
On a dime... One wrong step and I would be flipping burgers. Thank you God for saving me.
In 1998, I was a college dropout struggling to become an interior designer. I smoked a pack and a half of Marlboro Reds a day and drank about five gallons of Diet Coke. At 5' 10" I weighed about 130 pounds and ate every day at Wendy's. A type 1 diabetic, I hadn't checked my blood sugar in two years and just took insulin to survive.
I worked at the most absurd design store, Abdiana Design Center. It was located in the 9 story Firestone building in downtown Kansas City. It's owner, Nick, scared the shit out of me. He, the oldest of five brothers, would berate his employees and allow his family to run roughshod over the store (once his younger brother, wielding a running circular saw chased a construction worker around the bedding floor.) I worked from 8 in the morning until 8 at night, driving to and from my mother's house 45 minutes away in Leavenworth, KS.
My life consisted of work, smoking and Diet Coke. It all seemed fine. I mean, I was 20 and the lead designer at a huge furniture store, that cool, right? I drove a Pontiac Sunbird convertible and spent money on clothes and shoes. I did not have any aspirations beyond this, life was done. I was a loser and my options were Abdiana or fast food, I chose Abdiana.
In late July, as I was driving to work, my nose began to hemorrhage. It was so bad that I spent 25 minutes shoving tissues up my nose while chain smoking on the side of I-70. This began to happen with a regular frequency, always on the way to work, inevitably ruining an expensive shirt (I took to wearing a t shirt while driving and changing once I got to work.) By August, I was crying uncontrollably as I drove home every evening. Most of my friends had gone off to college, many of them were extremely conservative Baptists who shunned me once I took up my Diet Coke habit. I listened to Natalie Merchant and cried, I smoked and cried, I bled and cried it was very exciting.
The last week in August 1998, I walked into work. Picked up my schedule for the day and began to make small talk with Nicole, the receptionist. As we were talking, I began sobbing. I cried so hard that she had to drag me to the far corner of one of the galleries to calm me down. I sobbed my loneliness, poverty and distaste for the life that I was living. Nicole answered, leave now and never come back. Dumbfounded, I said that I couldn't! I had a car payment, I had a raging Diet Coke and nicotine habit to maintain! Nicole countered that I "would DIE if I stayed." That did it for me.
Ten minutes later, I was driving back to Leavenworth, smoking with a new-found fervor. I called my mother and told her that for all intents and purposes I was having a nervous breakdown. She took it rather well and was supportive of the move away from working at Abdiana. She let me stay at home in slightly more than a catatonic state.
Once a week, I would drive to Walmart and purchase one carton of Marlboro's and a case of Diet Coke, that was pretty much it for about two weeks. One the third week of the nervous breakdown, I noticed that my nose had stopped bleeding and that I could avoid crying for the better part of most days. I set out on that week's Walmart run, I hated the whole process of going into the store, inevitably I would meet someone that I knew from school or church, they would ask what I was up to and I would reply "trying not to slit my wrists!" Most people failed to find the humor in such statements and so the trips began to occur later and later in the evening.
Despite my timing of 11pm, this week was no exception, as soon as I entered the door "Zakk Hoyt?" rang our from across the courtesy desk. It was Jerry, one of my mom's friends and the wife of a local theater director. "Zakk, is that you? It has been so long, you look so well!" I could not dodge the occurrence! "Jerry! How are you?" I bellowed back swallowing the bowling ball of introversion and promising myself an extra cigarette for the trouble of this pleasantry... Jerry and I talked for a while about nothing in particular when out of the blue she mentioned that her husband was directing West Side Story in Atchison, KS. She urged me to try out, noting that I had been "such a fine singer and actor in high school." I said thank you and left it at that grabbed my smokes and hightailed it out of Wally World!
A week later, a flier was taped to our front door:
AUDITIONS
West Side Story
Next Thursday and Friday
Atchison Commuity Theater
Jerry had added a note, reminding me that I had always been so talented in high school. I threw the flier away...
A week passed and on Thursday we got a call. My mom answered, it was Jerry. She wanted me to go to the auditions. My mother somehow convinced me to leave the house and drive the 25 minutes to Atchison. I smoked the whole way there. I must have smelled like a humidor or at the very least an ashtray.
I was completely unprepared. After a bout with a sexually harassing high school music teacher, I had abandoned music all together and taken up the current regiment of cigarettes and Diet Coke. I signed in and when asked what I would like to sing, I mentioned that I didn't have anything prepared. The accompanist handed me a book of Broadway favorites and told me to pick something that I knew. I had never seen West Side Story, didn't know a thing about the play, its music or characters so when filling out the paperwork I checked that I was interested in all roles that applied to my voice type.
I sat alone in the small theater. This was a joint production with the local college's opera workshop program. As always, they were short on male singers and thus the need to reach into the community. There were a lot of talented people, my age and younger for the most part. I sat for about an hour before my name was called. A slight flutter of nerves but no bleeding or urge to slit my wrists... As I mounted the stage, I announced that I would be singing "On the Street Where You Live" (the only song that I knew, sort of in the entire book of Broadway favorites.)
I hadn't warmed up, really I hadn't sung since I graduated from High School two and a half years prior. I had smoked, really nonstop all the way to the audition and hadn't had an ounce of water in years.
When my mouth opened, I was taken aback. It was good, actually, quite good. I remembered the song and eeked out some sort of dramatic interpretation. That was it... I drove home.
The next day the assistant director called and asked me to come back to sing some more and do some reading. My mom urged me to go and so I did. This time, I smoked a little less and dressed a little more presentably.
I was there for three hours, singing and dancing, reading and interpreting. I figured that I would be offered a chorus slot that I could easily turn down and then easily resume my chain smoking, nose bleeding, Diet Coke drinking life and at the very least get a job at the local McDonald's.
I drove home to Leavenworth and not ten minutes out of the car we received a call, this time I answered. It was the assistant director, she offered me the part of Tony. I had to ask her if it was a good role. She laughed and told me that it was the lead...
I took the part.
I quit smoking, got the soundtrack to the musical and began to learn my lines. I couldn't read music and as noted before, hadn't sung in years so it was an uphill battle.
I sang, I danced, I kissed Maria and was shot. The audience cried and we received many standing ovations.
In addition to ovations and a four page, full-color spread in the local newspaper arts section I got a huge scholarship to Benedictine, the college that co-sponsored the production.
Each semester at Benedictine, I made it to the Dean's list. I performed in everything that I could. I truly quit smoking, switched to Diet Dr. Pepper with an occasional water. I began checking my blood sugar, eating three meals a day and learned to read music.
Two years into my time at Benedictine, I became a Catholic and began to discern a vocation to the priesthood. God had other plans, I fell in love with Erin, now my wife and moved to Portland, OR. I finished my education as a Laurel's Scholar for the state of Oregon and was offered a teaching fellowship for my graduate work at PSU.
On a dime... One wrong step and I would be flipping burgers. Thank you God for saving me.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Welcome to heaven Mrs. Mayfield
In the 90's I stayed with my stepfather's mother Virginia several times. She was a kind old lady who really only liked me, we got on rather well. My sister was too cute and not interested in her antiques and dotty ways and my mom was marrying her son and thus was not well-received either (it should be noted that she wasn't much for her son either... he had the audacity to wear jeans to Easter brunch!) At any rate, it was perfect for me. A slightly senile old lady from an aristocratic old family living in a house full of lovely things. Other 13 year old children had skate boards and Metallica, I had portraits of Civil War generals and stories of the distant Kennedy relation of my step-grandmother. Really, I was quite happy.
Virginia, was about 80 and drove a creamy yellow Lincoln Continental that her other Adonis like grandsons had nicknamed the "SS Virginia." Car and its driver were a menace to all of Springfield, MO (the place where she had lived her entire life.) Every day, she would pack into that huge car and drive about town running her own version of the Welcome Wagon. The car was quite worse for the wear after she had backed it out of the side of her narrow garage one too many times.
To complete her effect, she had a small white toy poodle whom she insisted was named "Jacques" although she could not pronounce the name she took great pride in the little French nod to culture and dignity.
Virginia was born into a prominent family, who were the founders of a local department store. Her parents lived in a lavish, craftsman style house on a tree-lined street in town. She would tell stories of her coming out party and the dances that they held on the wide front porch (whose windows retracted into the floor to ease the hot summers.)
In her late teens, she married "well" to a man who was for all intents and purposes the epitome of a douche bag. He was abusive and a womanizer and they divorced within 10 years of their marriage (not before having and traumatizing their son, my future stepfather.)
Virginia's wealthy, Catholic upbringing had not prepared her for the shame of being divorced in the 50's. Once a social doyenne, she was reduced by the social insult of a failed marriage. Her mother was not supportive and it seems was jealous of her doting father, this relationship seems to have become more strained after the divorce.
Unfortunately, the comfortable upbringing of her childhood did not carry into her adulthood. After the divorce and as her parents aged, their money waned. In addition, Virginia's brother was a terrible alcoholic who drank away a good portion of the family fortune (it was mentioned that at one low point in the 70's she opened the door of his car only to have numerous empty bottles of the only alcohol he could afford at the time, Listerine.) Despite this indignities, Virginia held her head high. She worked and lived with a sense of class that seems to be lost on my generation. Her meals (often cold meat sandwiches, with the crust removed and halved) were eaten on the Spode china she received as a wedding gift with sterling flatware and cut glass.
A creative woman, her home reflected an imagined opulence. The familial trappings of wealth came to reside in her tiny little ranch (still located in a lovely neighborhood even though the rent was only $250 dollars a month.) Her skills as a social butterfly did not go to waste, but were parlayed into a business welcoming newcomers to town with packets of advertising and coupons.
She maintained her place at society functions by volunteering and through sheer force of will, perhaps diminished but no less proud. As we polished silver at her dining room table, she would tell stories of how her wealthier friends wouldn't lend their sterling tea sets for fundraisers and so she would proudly offer her Gorham six-piece set for whatever altar society meeting, sale or auction it was needed for never realizing or perhaps caring that the sale of just some of her finery would have alleviated the masked poverty she lived in.
The last summer that I saw her, I stayed with her for two weeks to help her have a garage sale. The first two days were spent carting things from the attic, the next two days selling them in the back yard and the rest of the two weeks, she and I drove all over town. We took an inventory of each of her families former residences. Her parent's large home (she had to sell it after their death to pay for their dying years and her brother's embarrassing condition.) Her maternal grandmother's home, a lavish Victorian in a lovely part of town and her paternal grandparent's home or at least the site of it, they had donated the home to a local hospital which some time later had torn the mansion down for a parking lot. We even drove past the condo of her now-deceased former husband. The woman he had left her for still lived there (a muttered "whore" could be heard as we passed her unit.) It was a strange and rich two weeks.
Almost 20 years later I fondly remember the time I spent at her house.
Sadly, Her son informed me that she had died several years ago and that he had acquired the Gorham, Spode, paintings, antiques, etc. He didn't mention her really, just the things... Sad.
Today, as I was driving, I remembered a detail that I am sure that I was too young to really understand. Once, Virginia mentioned that she had considered taking Jacques and herself out into the forest where they would starve to death. At the time, coming from a family prone to sarcasm, I don't know that I gave it much thought, considering it a morbid joke. After all these years, I decided that she felt that it was really an option for her, no muss, no fuss, no burden. I think the only thing that kept her from it was the questions by those of her former social class and the doctrine of her now defunct Catholic faith. In my teen self-centered psyche I didn't make the connection to the profound loneliness that she must have felt.
Dearest Virginia, you were loved by me. Even though we knew each other for a few short years you were important to me. I am sure that you are in heaven, welcoming, as in life, newcomers t0 their now eternal home.
Virginia, was about 80 and drove a creamy yellow Lincoln Continental that her other Adonis like grandsons had nicknamed the "SS Virginia." Car and its driver were a menace to all of Springfield, MO (the place where she had lived her entire life.) Every day, she would pack into that huge car and drive about town running her own version of the Welcome Wagon. The car was quite worse for the wear after she had backed it out of the side of her narrow garage one too many times.
To complete her effect, she had a small white toy poodle whom she insisted was named "Jacques" although she could not pronounce the name she took great pride in the little French nod to culture and dignity.
Virginia was born into a prominent family, who were the founders of a local department store. Her parents lived in a lavish, craftsman style house on a tree-lined street in town. She would tell stories of her coming out party and the dances that they held on the wide front porch (whose windows retracted into the floor to ease the hot summers.)
In her late teens, she married "well" to a man who was for all intents and purposes the epitome of a douche bag. He was abusive and a womanizer and they divorced within 10 years of their marriage (not before having and traumatizing their son, my future stepfather.)
Virginia's wealthy, Catholic upbringing had not prepared her for the shame of being divorced in the 50's. Once a social doyenne, she was reduced by the social insult of a failed marriage. Her mother was not supportive and it seems was jealous of her doting father, this relationship seems to have become more strained after the divorce.
Unfortunately, the comfortable upbringing of her childhood did not carry into her adulthood. After the divorce and as her parents aged, their money waned. In addition, Virginia's brother was a terrible alcoholic who drank away a good portion of the family fortune (it was mentioned that at one low point in the 70's she opened the door of his car only to have numerous empty bottles of the only alcohol he could afford at the time, Listerine.) Despite this indignities, Virginia held her head high. She worked and lived with a sense of class that seems to be lost on my generation. Her meals (often cold meat sandwiches, with the crust removed and halved) were eaten on the Spode china she received as a wedding gift with sterling flatware and cut glass.
A creative woman, her home reflected an imagined opulence. The familial trappings of wealth came to reside in her tiny little ranch (still located in a lovely neighborhood even though the rent was only $250 dollars a month.) Her skills as a social butterfly did not go to waste, but were parlayed into a business welcoming newcomers to town with packets of advertising and coupons.
She maintained her place at society functions by volunteering and through sheer force of will, perhaps diminished but no less proud. As we polished silver at her dining room table, she would tell stories of how her wealthier friends wouldn't lend their sterling tea sets for fundraisers and so she would proudly offer her Gorham six-piece set for whatever altar society meeting, sale or auction it was needed for never realizing or perhaps caring that the sale of just some of her finery would have alleviated the masked poverty she lived in.
The last summer that I saw her, I stayed with her for two weeks to help her have a garage sale. The first two days were spent carting things from the attic, the next two days selling them in the back yard and the rest of the two weeks, she and I drove all over town. We took an inventory of each of her families former residences. Her parent's large home (she had to sell it after their death to pay for their dying years and her brother's embarrassing condition.) Her maternal grandmother's home, a lavish Victorian in a lovely part of town and her paternal grandparent's home or at least the site of it, they had donated the home to a local hospital which some time later had torn the mansion down for a parking lot. We even drove past the condo of her now-deceased former husband. The woman he had left her for still lived there (a muttered "whore" could be heard as we passed her unit.) It was a strange and rich two weeks.
Almost 20 years later I fondly remember the time I spent at her house.
Sadly, Her son informed me that she had died several years ago and that he had acquired the Gorham, Spode, paintings, antiques, etc. He didn't mention her really, just the things... Sad.
Today, as I was driving, I remembered a detail that I am sure that I was too young to really understand. Once, Virginia mentioned that she had considered taking Jacques and herself out into the forest where they would starve to death. At the time, coming from a family prone to sarcasm, I don't know that I gave it much thought, considering it a morbid joke. After all these years, I decided that she felt that it was really an option for her, no muss, no fuss, no burden. I think the only thing that kept her from it was the questions by those of her former social class and the doctrine of her now defunct Catholic faith. In my teen self-centered psyche I didn't make the connection to the profound loneliness that she must have felt.
Dearest Virginia, you were loved by me. Even though we knew each other for a few short years you were important to me. I am sure that you are in heaven, welcoming, as in life, newcomers t0 their now eternal home.
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