“Unveiling Secrets: What Columbus Never Knew About His Journey”
Off he went, eventually opening the passenger door of his silver Volkswagen Bug so his adolescent daughter, already displaying an interest in fantasy and folly, could get in. He drove us to A Chorus Line, after which I wanted nothing more than to audition, for anything, because it seemed more profound than actually getting the part. We saw Heathers at the Angelika, Dad guffawing nonstop. At piano bars in the West Village, I was the youngest in the audience by 25 years.
My mother is no more approving now that I live here — “It’s like you’re on the other side of the world,” she mourned over the phone the other day — but Dad is all for it. I’m his stand-in, though as such, I’m sinking. I share a sidewalk-level studio with mice who look healthier than I do. The view from my windows is of people’s feet. It’s a forty-minute walk from the office, which saves me subway fare. But it’s torture taking in all that grandeur before returning to a hovel where everything is necessarily small, from the refrigerator to the bookshelf.
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