New York, NY

faulkner sitting
Originally uploaded by manshreck.

This blog is designed to contain my travels, both physical, emotional, hopefully spiritual. I should state that this post is 6 months overdue, and I am in the process of "backposting" to get this stream up to speed ...

My travels for the past 6 months have been directly related to the cute pooch you see sitting here. His name is Faulkner (mine is Tom) and he came to me as an accident, abandoned on a street in Brooklyn when I was going through too much mental energy on too many "large" problems.

It was August 18th, 2004, and I had endured a difficult day. My job at the time was particularly stressful, and my commute was a daily journey through the most harrowing passages of Ulysses, from Brooklyn through Manhattan to northern New Jersey. Anyone who has ever driven through New York City during rush hour and not been driven insane can appreciate the steady drain this had on my psyche. I was living in an "edgy" neighborhood in Brooklyn (East Williamsburg) that hadn't yet quite turned into the SoHo clone it was clearly moving towards, but it was a neighborhood that still consisted more of broken glass and Pit Bulls than lattes. My social life had become increasingly hermetic as friends had moved away or friendships had failed to hold. My only saving grace was a collection of close friends and my loft apartment, an apartment I loved as a fortress of solitutude. But the price for holding this fortress required me to endure increasing amounts of stress, and I was not able to enjoy it more than a few hours a night.

It didn't start out that way. I moved to New York expecting to set up a consulting business in February, 2001, after successfully operating a business in Massachusetts for the previous 4 years. I arrived on February 20th. The tech market crashed on February 21st and the two contracts for work I had in my hand were rapidly withdrawn (one company went out of business). After many months of inconsistent work, I finally found a permanent position in financial publishing. That job started on September 4, 2001 ... A week later, that job would be on borrowed time as well. My father turned ill September 12, 2001 as well, and would die October 6, 2001.

I will not write about these events, but they framed my "seige mentality" as I toughed it out in New York City in the post 9/11 age. As 2001 turned into 2002, I took a job with a terrible commute to pay the bills, advance my career, hold onto my dream loft, and embarked on a hedonistic lifestyle commensurate with New York's outsized mentality. But the drawbacks had started to outweigh the benefits. In short, I no longer was living in NYC under the conditions which I had set out to accomplish. By 2003, the parties were ending and the drudgery of the job was rising. By 2004, I was determined to leave.

So it was August 18th, 2004 and the day was hot and humid. I was working as a managing editor and I had spent the greater part of the day being berated by an author in language that would peel paint on a battleship. By late afternoon, I had had it and approached my boss (a gentle soul within a rather soulless environment, and he consented to letting me out early, noticing the fatigue in my face.

I was trying to make it back to my neighborhood for a Kerry for President strategy session. The traffic was unusually bad. I saw an overhead sign that warned the George Washington Bridge had a 60 minute backup. I headed for the Lincoln tunnel. I turned on the radio. It told me the GWB had only a 10 minute delay, but the tunnel was a mess. A cruel trick of fate. After struggling for an hour and a half I was finally making it through Manhattan when the brakes on my car went out. I rolled through a red light on 2nd Avenue onto Houston St, negotiated the onrushing traffic, and pulled the emergency brake at the curb. This day had been hell and I had ultimately almost paid the final price. After I was towed to Queens, one of the Puerto Rican employees at the repair shop took pity on me and offered to drive me back to my neighborhood, at least 5 miles out of his way.

I showed up to my building to see a tiny, emaciated dog tied up outside. He was barely 12 pounds and I could see his ribs. A friend of mine, Garrett, was playing with him. I knew that he had a cocker spaniel until he had to give her up because his little girl became allergic to her. He told me that the little guy had been tied up and abandoned, and would I take him in for a night? He wagged his tail happily when I bent down to pick him up. Of course I took him in. After the day I had, I couldn't refuse the only good thing that had happened. We had both had a shitty day, and there was an obvious way to resolve the day happily. I named him Faulkner, after the William of the Deep South, and a name I had reserved for my future dog for well over 10 years. It was time to use it.

As it turned out, I had the entire month of September scheduled for a much needed vacation. I had planned to drive to Arizona and hike the length of the Grand Canyon. Instead, I would spend the days at home, waking up with my puppy, taking him for a walk, getting a cup of coffee, and doing the crossword puzzle on the bench on the corner. That September would be the best vacation I had yet had in my life.

That is, until this year, when I gave New York up to take one last epic drive in my rapidly aging car, with my co-pilot, Faulkner.

To Alaska. The 49th state. For me, the 49th state as well. I had been to 48 states in this car, and now I would drive to 49.

Tom