Letter to Jutta

Hey!

New Years Day, 1996. Happy New Year. Hope all your dreams come true.

I was at a party last night, and I had gotten there a little late. Wait a minute, let me back up. Last night I went to a party at Damien’s. He’s the Artistic Director of the theater where I am in residence. His wife made this pretty spectacular spread. I left there to go to another friends party in a loft in SoHo on 26th street. I got there, it’s a big place, and it was jammed. But it turns out that they were charging $15 to get in. I thought that was incredibly cheap thing to do. Especially not to warn people. So I left and went to another party which was on 57th street above Times Square. I started walking towards “The Deuce”, I thought I could just skirt around the crowd. I had no idea how big the crowd that gathers around time square is. In the news they usually only show this one shot of it, about a solid square block. What you are seeing is only the tip of the iceberg. That mob extended for five or six blocks in every direction. I had to walk four blocks out of my way to get around it. I almost got trapped and swept away in it twice. It was like a scene from “Day Of The Locust” Car horns blasting, bottles smashing, people vomiting. I reached my destination which was the Righa Royale. I had to convince the police to let me through. The party was on the 52nd floor. To the south it looked down upon the swarming mob, to the north was Central Park. I asked for a glass of champagne and the bartender told me it was all gone. All they had left was Frexinet Cordon Negro. I grunted. A guy next to me said “It’s not so bad.” I replied “I’ve had better champagne at wedding receptions in Lowell.”
His eye’s lit up. “Lowell? Why did you say Lowell?’
“I’m from Chelmsford.”
“I’m from Lawrence. Do you know Guido, I mean, John Parent or any of the Parents.”
“Chris Parent is one of my best friends.”
So there I am. New Years eve on the 52nd floor of the Rhiga Royale and the first person I meet, knows my best friend from grade school. It’s a big city, but it’s a small town.

Received your letter. I can only imagine what you are going through and it pains me to know how you must be suffering. From what you describe there is no solution. If you throw him out you will feel like you let down someone you care about, when they needed you most. If you let him stay he will start to drag you down with him. So there you have it. Two bad choices and all you can do is pick the lesser one. If you were here I would wrap my arms around you and give you a big hug. Then I would cover your face with a hundred little kisses, stroke your hair and tell you that everything is going to be all right.

December 7th.
New York city is buried in one of the worst snow storms in decades. There are no cars outside, just swirling snow, thunder and lightning. We go to the movies and see La’America. The next day the city is so peaceful. All traffic is banned, except emergency vehicles. People are walking around in the middle of the streets, smiling at everyone. It feels like you are in a picture postcard from the turn of the century. Every now and then a fire truck comes roaring down the avenues bright red against the virgin snow.

Thinking of you often.

Much Love.