There’s a City in My Mind, Come On and Take That Ride and It’s Alright
FLORIDA — DECEMBER
My 2019 ended with my family and about 100,000 other people at the most magical place on Earth. When we’d booked our family trip to Florida in the fall, Disney on New Year’s sounded charming, and, I figured, Christmas Day must be the *really* busy day. Though I overthought nearly every other detail of the trip, my brain, in an impish act of self-sabotage, never gave this any more thought until December 31st arrived.
The prospect of a trip to Orlando had been looming large in my head since my kids had been out of diapers. Jen, my wife, was generally supportive of the idea, but not having gone herself as a kid, she didn’t understand why it was something I’d feel any pressure to pull off before our kids were grown. And it’s not something the kids themselves begged for — even when we told them about the upcoming trip, Tom seemed most excited about Lego Land and its hotel buffet. I have to admit that, while I’m generally not driven as a parent to live up to any traditional image of domestic prosperity, the Magic Kingdom had lodged somewhere in my head as a parenting goal. It wasn’t something I owed them, but, if I could deliver, maybe, after a chaotic start and a steep learning curve, I’d turned to be an alright parent after all.
Both kids were reluctant to fly, and Jen and I were glad to take the opportunity to make the trip by car. She’s driven cross country before, but I’ve never been further west than Pennsylvania, and though my family flew to Florida when I was a kid, I’ve otherwise never been further south than Maryland. I love driving through unfamiliar places, even mundane ones; though our schedule was too tight for many stops, I loved watching the weather and foliage change, going from bare New England trees to still-green swamps, spotting unfamiliar fast food chains (along with many Waffle Houses), and, most mystifyingly, learning about the history of South of the Border, a sprawling rest stop and tourist trap with a problematic but complicated history and an enormous billboard presence throughout South Carolina. We stopped there on the way home, and my goal was to leave with the single tackiest souvenir I could find. Jen discovered said item, a shot glass with large glass breasts, covered with a bikini adorned with bright green pot leaves. I know I married the right person, but some moments really drive it home.
If it feels like a distant dream now that, just over a year ago, we hopped in a rental car the morning after Christmas and drove 1,400 miles across the country, New Year’s Eve was a hallucination. Our previous days at Epcot and the Universal parks were easy enough — though the parks were busy, Jen and I had done a fine job of communicating through long lines, a crowded Diagon Alley, the kids’ occasional cranky moments, and the time when, after waiting nearly two hours to get on a Harry Potter ride, both children decided they were too scared to get on (Jen got on while I waited with them for my turn; I consider it a parental victory that I didn’t use the word “chickenshit” once). Or when the Transformers ride broke down while we were on it, and Luna, my daughter, who is normally very modest and mild-mannered, leaned over and quietly whispered “fuck” in my ear. Other than a moment on the second night when we both nearly lost our minds from not having had a real meal for three days (a quick Wendy’s trip kept the madness at bay), we’d been at the top of our game as partners and co-parents. We didn’t realize the Magic Kingdom would be our final boss battle.
At first, the rush of people on Main Street USA was exhilarating. It hadn’t been two minutes since we entered the park when we saw someone propose to their partner; the moment had me misty-eyed, which grew into an unexpected swell of joy for the whole experience. Though I wanted to give my kids the Disney experience, I’ve always resisted the manufactured wonder that the mouse pushes. But our previous day’s trip to Epcot, with its emphasis on the company’s history and the wonder of imagination, coupled with the sheer scope of what Walt’s dreams manifested, had given me a not uncomplicated but sincere new appreciation for the whole enterprise. If it wasn’t enough to make me a convert, it at least had me looking at the park, with its throngs of families, couples and singles looking to ring in 2020 with a bit of Disney magic — even if, like Christmas, it’s a magic we all agree to play along with for the sake of the kids — through a less cynical lens.
That magic carried me through our day of navigating packed crowds and still getting in a respectable number of rides (Jungle Cruise and Pirates of the Caribbean were big hits with the whole family, and Jen and I have a soft spot for the shady denizens of Country Bear Jamboree). By the afternoon, though, the park was at capacity, and as we tried to make our way through Fantasyland, we were greeted with a crush of New Year’s partygoers that was impossible to navigate beyond. The kids, to their credit, were understanding that we won’t get to Peter Pan or Dumbo; we all just wanted to get out of there, which proved to be its own ride. I was heartened by my fellow parents as we communicated nonverbally across the crowd, helping each other chart a path through the chaos. We got out of the worst of it and still had time for the Mad Tea Party and the Haunted Mansion (my favorite), where we survived another crush of excited young adult partygoers who seem blissfully unaware that there were kids in the park. But again, I should’ve expected this.
As we made our way towards the exits around ten, wanting to get ahead of the crowd, we crossed the bridge with a perfect view of Cinderella’s castle. As we stopped to take a family photo, I noticed that we were the only ones on the bridge. I look a little tense in the photo, because it’s the exact moment I’m wondering if we’re allowed to be here; a moment later, an employee firmly moved us along. We eventually got back to our hotel, and rang in 2020 with pizza, cheap wine and Anderson Cooper. Jen and I kissed when the ball dropped, though that’d be the extent of the action that night; I should’ve splurged for two rooms. We’ve made a routine of beginning and ending every day by heading down to the outdoor jacuzzi — we were always the only ones there — and flirting and leering at each other. I never understood why Clark Griswald was so horny; I get it now.
The next morning, I headed to the jacuzzi one last time before checkout, and I took a selfie while I’m there. I don’t take a lot of selfies, but I wanted to capture this moment. I look like I’ve just woken up, of course, but I was feeling more self-confident than usual after our successfully surviving New Year’s Eve. I was also eager to get home, and optimistic for the year to come. As with many of our vacation photos, this is the face of a person who has absolutely no idea what’s coming.
BUFFALO — FEBRUARY
I’ve enjoyed long drives since college, when I’d make a three hour trip between school and home once or twice a month. Back then, I took many opportunities to explore western Massachusetts and upstate New York, and I’d grown to appreciate the stark beauty of the region. So when I got an exciting offer of an acting gig in Buffalo, I jumped at it. But when I arrived in Buffalo to find the gig had been postponed, and that I’d be spending a few days waiting in Buffalo in February, I learned I had no idea what “stark” is.
It didn’t help that the Airbnb I was staying in was the stuff of nightmares. Instead of a door, the entrance to my room was loosely covered with a bright orange, plastic shower door, loosely held in place by a twisted wire. I could frequently hear my host down the hall, yelling into his phone about an unknown grievance. And while the odor of stale weed smoke is, on its own, not the worst, when coupled with a vague undercurrent of rotting food, it’s nearly lethal. Rather than getting another room, because my foolish brain thought Jen would be more disappointed if I spent more money than that I stayed in a murder house, I spent as much time out as possible, enjoying all that midwinter Buffalo had to offer.
Mostly, this meant casinos. I’d never been to one before, and I wonder — are they all charged with a uniquely malevolent energy? Is it normal to buy tokens from a smirking guy who literally looks like Mephistopheles with a ponytail and a bolo? I know not all casinos allow indoor smoking, as this one did, but are they all pungent with despair? I sat down at a movie-themed slot machine with twenty bucks worth of credits, and to my surprise, I’d doubled my money in no time. About ninety minutes later, I’d lost it all, plus another forty bucks. Luckily, a voice in my brain snapped “Get the hell out of here,” and I listened. I learned the most important lesson of gambling that day, which is that I’m ripe for a gambling problem and need to stay away from casinos forever. Anyway, it was fun while it lasted.
I spent much of the rest of my time checking out Niagara Falls, which was impressive even on a dreary day. I’ve since been told repeatedly that it’s nicer on the Canada side, but I didn’t have a passport, unfortunately. As I checked out the bridge by which one can enter Canada by foot, though, I was surprised to learn that I wouldn’t necessarily need one to walk right into the country; however, there were plenty of posted warnings that it would be much harder to come home. I texted Jen and my best friend, Kate, joking that I might make a run for it. It had been about six weeks since, on our trip home from Florida, we learned that Trump was on the verge of starting a war with Iran; the week I went to Buffalo, COVID-19 was just starting to make headlines. I joked that I wasn’t quite ready to defect yet, but Trump had better not do anything to push me — ha ha!
Ha. Ha ha ha ha ha. Ha.
PENNSYLVANIA — SEPTEMBER
Drive-ins saved me this year. Like many people, my spring and early summer were spent appreciating the finer details of the few blocks around my house. Evening walks, family movie and game nights and takeout once a week became our new normal. Nature walks, which I’ve always enjoyed, become a rare luxury. I found that I was surprisingly comfortable with it. We were lucky enough to still have work, and though acting work was out for a while, and my nonprofit job brought the uniquely stressful experience of having to persuade people that they should try to not die while also trying not to get It in the process, it was also an easier time in a lot of ways. I was fine as long as the imperative was to stay home, do my part and focus on my family. It was honestly a relief to step away from the rat race, by which I mean I was participating in a cross-country race to find money hidden by an eccentric billionaire. Really irresponsible during a pandemic! But seriously, it was good not having to worry about chasing gigs and trying not to compare myself against others; though the circumstances that prompted it were horrible, I didn’t realize how much I needed to stop and reflect.
Things got more stressful with the mixed signals of reopening, as I was both hesitant to get back to what the state was saying is ok (though it sure didn’t feel like it) and conscious that the bigger risk for me was not taking unnecessary risks but staying in an agoraphobic comfort zone (though I like long trips, I am also alone for most of them; crowds are a different story even in normal times). Jen and I also wrestled with how the pandemic had made us see our neighbors in a starker light. We had, and still have, to remind ourselves that most people are, in fact, making a good faith effort to distance, wear masks and keep others safe; on the other hand, it grew harder to ignore people who refuse to work together, and my creeping suspicion that entitlement and toxic individualism will eventually kill us all proved a distraction from game night. The surge of the Black Lives Matter movement after George Floyd’s murder only compounded this feeling; I was proud to see how many members of my community turned out, but I’m still struggling to move beyond the memory of my neighbors flipping the bird as we marched by, or the many Blue Lives Matter gaiters I’d see later in the year on election day, or, especially, the local cops who, after declining to kneel with us, exchanged fist bumps with heavily armed white supremacist chodes. There was a larger police presence at the next rally, protecting statues outside the state house. Two cops were guarding a bell.
In trying to navigate the diffuse, seemingly omnipresent anxiety that defined summer 2020, drive-ins were the life preserver I needed. We’re lucky to have a few around, and though my kids didn’t quite share my enthusiasm for it, they were hugely important for my mental health, a welcome and romantic alternative to my favorite normal times activity. The dearth of new movies had most of them playing classics; over the summer, we enjoyed double features of E.T. and Back to the Future, The Empire Strikes Back and Black Panther, Friday the 13th and A Nightmare on Elm Street. And when a drive-in in Maine started a late night horror series, I went as often as possible. Seeing The Beyond projected against dark Maine woods is one of my best and most unusual Fourth of July memories. And Night of the Living Dead played with new resonance, especially the character who actually turns out to be right that they’d be better off hiding in the basement, but nobody listens to him because he’s a belligerent asshole.
In the early fall, I decided to venture to the Mahoning Drive-In, an all-35mm haven for cinephiles in eastern Pennsylvania, for their slasher-themed Camp Blood weekend. I should clarify here that, even in normal times, I travel like a maniac, and doing so safely wasn’t a big adjustment — for the whole weekend, I never set foot in a building, and I was never within six feet of another person. This was only my second time out since the pandemic started; in July, I worked on a Hallmark Christmas movie in Connecticut. The protocol for film and TV shoots right now involves heavy testing and closely monitored safety protocols, and though the whole experience was weird (mostly because I was wearing heavy layers and surrounded by holiday decorations in 90-degree weather), I felt much safer than at my other job, or anywhere other than home. Less relaxing was the hotel stay the night before; feeling a rush of euphoria at being out of the house and renewed anxiety about fomites, I drank too much and promptly passed out. With Pennsylvania, I was determined to actually improve my mental health.
For the most part, the trip was a success. Even an introvert needs to be around people sometimes, and it felt great to be around my people in a safe way. Though I was alone, it felt like community to overhear other nerds talking about nerd stuff. Plus — and I’ve found this to be universally true — horror fans are perhaps the coolest and sexiest nerd subculture. There’s one end of horror fandom that is adjacent to a ’50s rockabilly/pinup aesthetic that is very much my thing; on the other end are the metalheads, who have often made me wonder if I’d have been a happier teen if I spent high school drinking beer in the woods while blasting Metallica, instead of stressing whether the fall play would be ready for opening night. Though no fandom is completely free of toxic corners, horror events have always been a welcoming space for me, and none of the people camping around me knew how much they were helping me out just by being themselves.
During the days, I drove around the surrounding small towns and vast expanses of farmland. This was the ruralest of rural PA, Deer Hunter country, and more houses than not displayed Trump signs. While the president has plenty of support in New Hampshire, you’re as likely to see a Biden sign or the “We believe…” one (we have one of those ourselves), with the most ostentatious displays reserved for contractors, landscapers and wingnuts. Here, Trump support was the default setting — not just signs but flags, large banners and homemade billboards were inescapable. A roadside vendor sold, among other things, a flag with an illustration of Trump with Rambo’s body, firing a machine gun. Pretending politicians fit a masculine ideal is an old political fetish — a photoshopped image of George W. Bush wearing Kevlar, revolver drawn, looking like he’s about to kick down Bin Laden’s front door, sticks in my memory — but painting Trump in this light prompted me to exclaim to nobody, “Oh, COME ON.”
I also couldn’t help noticing that many of the same houses with Trump signs also displayed strong support for the military, as did the towns themselves. This was a few days after the story broke that Trump called soldiers “losers” and “suckers.” While my pessimism is at least partly refuted in November, I think of those towns when the discussion turns to why so many people lived through this year and decided “this is fine, four more years,” or how we’re supposed to move on and come together now. I’m writing this on December 30, and several of my neighbors haven’t taken their signs and flags down; I wonder how it’s going in Carbon County.
At night, I watch slasher movies on the big screen, with their comfortingly familiar formula. I’m not the first person to observe this, but it used to be funny how many of them hinged on young characters who ignore obvious danger. Sure, a bunch of campers were killed at Crystal Lake last year, and the year before that, but what are we supposed to do, get high and have sex in the woods at a different lake? So what if the sheriff found a bloody human heart with a note warning more people would die if we don’t cancel the Valentine’s Day party — we can’t let them take Valentine’s Day away from us! And yes, we’re in a pandemic with a virus that is more easily spread in indoor environments where people are eating and drinking, but dammit, Applebee’s is bigger than that! In the end, the weekend is good for me but, like everything else, not quite enough to outrun reality.
HOME — DECEMBER
As the year wears on and the numbers start climbing again, it’s those kind of thoughts, and my wariness of my neighbors, that causes more anxiety than fear of the virus itself. There’s some relief after the election and the week after, which felt like what I imagine binging coke or amphetamines must feel like, but at least, by the end, there was one less thing to worry about. A few weeks after that, the city of Manchester threatened to shut down a homeless camp that had expanded on public property during the pandemic; as the city and state pointed fingers at each other, a solution for alternate housing was slow to come. A group of protestors and organizers, mostly local students, worked together to prevent police from moving in on the camp, though, after a week, they moved in large numbers overnight, trashing people’s belongings and erecting a fence around the entire (again, public) lawn. When I shared pictures from that day, I got negative feedback for including pictures with the name and number of the landscaping company putting up the fence, which were displayed prominently on their trucks and clothing, and encouraging local friends not to give them business. It was an important reminder that there are somethings that transcend red/blue divides, like indifference to homeless people and valuing property ownership over personal rights. It was as dark as it got this year.
While I’m eager, like everyone, to put this dark year behind us, I don’t know exactly what that will look like for me. I’m not in a rush to resume the same pace I was at before this, and my priorities have shifted in ways I’m still working out. I miss people; I look forward to sitting in a movie theater with a crowd as soon as it’s safe. On the other hand, there’s a part of me that used to be great at going with the flow, shrugging off selfish and entitled behavior, that I can’t see myself going back to now that I’ve seen what that looks like when pushed to extremes. In my more optimistic moments, I remember my fellow parents at Disney World and how we helped each other make it through the mob. Our best work, collectively, was in that same spirit this year — looking through the chaos for others in the same boat, helping when and however we could. I hope we don’t forget that. In any case, New Year’s this year is going to be lasagna, wine and the Twilight Zone marathon, and I couldn’t be more excited. I might even get lucky this year.
