12-Revealing Old Secrets

Another week had passed before Larry and I were able to meet up again. Despite our short amount of time together, we never ran out of things to say, which could have stemmed from our similar backgrounds.

I always wanted to be a performer growing up, and I envied that in Larry, while he told me he admired my creative energy and positive force. We decided to meet this time at Washington Square Park in the Village, but under one condition: Larry couldn’t wear any makeup. He agreed.

When I saw Larry for the first time walking under the giant Arch in front of the park, I couldn’t believe my eyes. He was an attractive man with strong features. He had a few lines around the eyes, but it looked distinguished. His blue eyes were refreshing and naïve. His hair was a little grey around the temples, but it made him look wiser. His lips, which were always hidden underneath white paint, were now red and full. It was hard to believe this was the same man who donned clown makeup.

I walked up to him, and gently touched his stubbly cheek, assuring him he was liked with and without makeup.

But when Larry opened his mouth, something was missing. You could hear in his passive voice that he lacked self-confidence without makeup. His eyes lacked direction and purpose.

“So, what do you think of this new world?” I asked.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “I feel so insignificant, so anonymous. I don’t feel like I stand out. People just pass me on the street, without a second glance. I’m just one of the masses,” he said, pointing to the crowds of shoppers walking across the street, carrying Macy’s bags.

“But you’re not, Larry. You’re unique.”

And that’s when it hit me, like a bolt of lightening.

“That’s it. That’s it,” I said anxiously. “That’s why you were laid off. I figured it out.”

I grabbed Larry’s forearm, as if I had to shake him to believe it.

Larry looked at me.

“You were laid off so you could discover the person you are, not the person others think you are,” I said. “You might have enjoyed life as a clown, the people, the elephants and yes, the midgets, but you needed to experience life like this, as the man you are.”

Larry raised his eyebrow, letting the thought sink in.

“Did you study philosophy in college?” Larry asked.

“No, I studied music, but I think music and philosophy are the same. They’re both interpretations, reflections and expressions of human desire and needs,” I said.

“You’re such a cerebral person,” Larry said. “You’ve got a lot of deep thoughts inside that head of yours, but why don’t you ever open up to me?”

“I open up.”

“No, you don’t,” he said. “It’s always me talking about myself. This entire friendship has been about me. You haven’t shared much about yourself. I want to hear more about you.”

“Well, what do you want to know?”

“I want to know where you came from. Tell me about your parents.”

Larry pointed to a wooden park bench that was about ten feet in front of us. It faced a water fountain that was turned off. In summer, Washington Square Park was crowded with people –kids riding skateboards, tourists walking aimlessly, old men playing chess, young people walking their dogs--, but on this unexpectedly warm winter day, there were few voices echoing in the air. It was only the locals roaming the park.

On the outside, everyone always said I was an open book, but the truth was, I knew I was guarded with my emotions. Sure, I was gregarious, and chatted with strangers freely, but I never opened up and expressed my inner fears. Like all adult issues, my fears stemmed from my childhood.

“I lost both my parents at the age of nine,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Larry put his hand on my hand.

“I was the only child, so when it happened, I didn’t have any siblings to turn to.” I looked down at a bird eating bread crumbs on the cracked sidewalk. “My Mom was also the only child, and Daddy only had one sister. She was always the ‘crazy aunt’ growing up, because no one ever knew where she was. She moved around the country, and never kept in contact with Daddy.”

I wondered where that aunt was now.

“After no one stepped forward to take care of me, I bounced from foster home to foster home, until I was 17 years old,” I said. “It was tough those first few years because I didn’t know who I was. And that forced me to try and find myself at the age of ten. When other kids were playing with dolls and cars, I was reading self-help books, trying to find reasons behind my pain.”

I looked at Larry, who was now facing me. He put my hair behind my ear, just like Daddy used to.

“I lived in 32 foster homes by the time I left the system,” I said. “And I saw a lot. I saw things no child should ever see.”

“Do you want to share that with me?”

Before I opened up to Larry, I looked into his eyes to confirm he was sincere when he said he wanted to hear more about my life. His eyes told me he was safe and cared deeply for me. I believed him, and now it was up to me to take that first step, knowing full-well, I could get hurt.

I looked down at my fingernails that were bitten. I was just about to bring my nails up to my mouth when Larry put his hand on my hand again.

“A lot of those foster kids turned to drugs,” I said. “And you can’t blame them. They used drugs as an escape. It was the only way their young minds could get instant gratification from pain. Lots of people don’t understand why drugs are so rampant in the foster care community. It’s not because these foster kids are bad or lack values. It’s because they’re hurting and want to find happiness.”

“Did you ever do any drugs?” Larry asked.

“Nope. I never did,” I said. “When I was ten, my foster sister died from a drug overdose, and it was painful to see. I was the one who found her passed out on the bathroom floor. I ran and called 911, and when I came back, she kept telling me, ‘promise me you’ll stay here. I need you. I’m scared.’ I held her hand and didn’t leave her side until the very end. The paramedics even let me ride on the ambulance with her.”

For any adult, riding in an ambulance can be a traumatic experience. But for a child, it’s even more impressionable.

“I remember hearing the paramedics talk in what was to me was a foreign language,” I said. “Her blood pressure is dropping. Give me another IV. Alert the EC unit we need an OR.”

I remembered the paramedics yelling at each other as a two-way radio played in the background of this small van.

“I put my small hands on my lap and watched them put an oxygen mask over her little mouth. It covered her entire face. I remember seeing them poke needles in her arm. I watched her tiny, skinny frame jump up and down on the stretcher as the paramedics tried to jumpstart her heart.”

I didn’t know what flatlining was at that age, but when I heard it for the first time, I knew it wasn’t good.

“She’s flatlining,” I remember the female paramedic yelling. “Hold on, Sweetie. Hold on. Don’t go yet.”

Then suddenly, in an instant, the urgency was over.

“They pulled a white sheet over her body and quit working,” I said. “The ambulance slowed down, and the siren turned off. I looked out the back window and noticed cars were now following us. They were no longer pulling over to the side of the road.”

Then, the paramedics started talking about how young the little girl was. I remember I wanted to say, “She is ten. It’s not, she was ten.” I thought my English teacher would be proud to hear me correct their grammar from past to present tense, but I was too scared to open my mouth among these big people.

When I was growing up, I couldn’t understand why or how a higher power, like God, could allow such pain to happen to little children. But I kept believing and praying in every crowded foster home I moved into that God would hear my pleas and help me find meaning.

Sometimes, I cried all night with a pillow over my head, trying to keep the other children in my room from hearing my whimpers. Of course, crying was something every child knew intimately. Whenever a new foster child entered our home, he or she would inevitably break down that first dark, silent night. I always walked over to them when I heard that, and tried to comfort them, promising it would get better. I think that’s where my positive outlook first took roots.

Despite this pain, I wanted to believe there was a reason to life. Now that I made it through that tough, painful childhood, I want others to see life as the gift it is. Life isn’t bad, if you choose to focus on the good.

“Hopefully, I helped some of those children, but most of those kids turned their pain into anger,” I said. “They broke things, turned to drugs and sex for escape, belittled smaller children, and some kids even killed.

In one of my foster homes, a 12-year-old boy shattered a glass lamp over the head of a 10-year-old girl because she wouldn’t give him her food. I was later told she died and the boy was sentenced to life in prison for murder.

I say -‘later told’- because overnight the state got involved and moved us all into new foster homes by the morning. I made some of my best friends in that house, including Mary.”

“What?” Larry asked. “Mary? The Mary I know?”

I shook my head yes.

“She grew up in a foster home too?” Larry asked.

I looked at him, and shook my head yes again.

“Wow,” Larry said. “Go on.”

“When I was 11, she and I moved into the same foster home on the same day. I immediately told everyone we were sisters without even thinking or telling her. I think we both knew intuitively we would appear stronger if the other children believed we came in as two. And Mary played right along. From that very first day, we bonded like real sisters. She was a year older than me, but we were about the same size. So we used to share clothes. We were inseparable.”

I looked at Larry again, and saw a tear in his eye. He looked sad and hurt. I wanted to squeeze him and say I was okay. It was the past. But I was afraid I might break down too if I stared too long into his vulnerable eyes. I tried to distract myself. I looked away at a young married couple walking their dog in front of us.

“I turned to my school work for escape,” I said. “I loved philosophy even before I knew who Plato was. I read it for fun, and of course, the other kids made fun of me for it. I read my history and geometry books too, but it was the motivational, spiritual and philosophical books that pulled me through the dark nights.”

“Is that why you went to Cornell? Because Mary went there?”

“Yup, plus I got a full-ride scholarship,” I said. “I didn’t even apply for a scholarship, but after admissions counselors read my application, they called me and offered me one. Of course, I had great grades.”

“I bet you did,” Larry said. “Especially in philosophy.”

We laughed together out loud.

“I wanted to be close to Mary during college, but I also chose Cornell because it was in New York,” I continued. “It’s a funny story. Want to hear it?”

Larry nodded his head.

“Everyone always said New York was this mystical city in the middle of it all. It was a city that never slept, and every dream came true,” I said. “When I learned Harvard was in Massachusetts and Cornell was in New York, I chose Cornell because of its location. I assumed Ithica would be full of skyscrapers and energy, just like the movies projected of New York. I’m sure you can imagine the surprise when I rolled into this little town expecting Manhattan, and instead got four-story buildings downtown. I felt like the campus recruiters lied to me.”

“You seriously didn’t know Cornell was in Ithica? How could you not know?”

“I guess I was naïve. But now, I wouldn’t trade that college experience for the world. After all, that’s where I met Nicky and Charley.”

“Tell me more about your music.”

“When I was younger, I used to compose music and sing in bars,” I said, avoiding eye contact. “I wanted to be a performer, like you.”

“You wanted to be famous?” Larry said. “I never would have guessed that.”

“No, I never wanted fame,” I said. “I enjoyed the art in music. I loved expressing my soul through melody, and seeing the peace it brought to others. I miss that.”

Larry looked into my eyes. He put his hand on my knee.

“Will you sing for me?”

“Here? I can’t. Besides, I need a guitar.”

Larry turned around towards the arch in front of the park. He saw an Asian man, sitting against a tree, writing music a sheet of paper.

“Don’t go anywhere.”