We didn't speak often, but when we did, the exchanges were always driven by optimism and laughter. Sports, business trips, and the new irons I always seemed to be putting in the fire created lively chats and a friendly professional rapport. Marty was more than just an insurance guy; he was a fan and never failed to encourage my proclivity toward seeking and testing business boundaries, not to mention life as a whole. As National Baseball Hall of Famer Reggie Jackson did for the Yankees in the 70s, Marty and my accountant, entertainment attorney, transactional attorney, real estate attorney, and real estate agent marveled at how I continually swung for the wall in pursuit of the ultimate yet nebulous home run, The American Dream. Of course, all the invoices my compulsions generated for them were linked to their exuberance. You would think I would have been safe and sound with that periphery of savvy and certified protection. However, imagine an erect penis wrapped in six condoms that still contracts a venereal disease, and you will better comprehend why my spirit for business and all else went limp. You can shield the body but not the mind. Particular episodes of dishonesty and questionable deeds that spurred the inner anguish I experienced with my tribe of suits and darlings will be described shortly. However, for now, I affirm that Marty was the only one in LA, during the advent of my depression, who always stayed on the unsullied and transparent side of the moral line. His well-grounded enthusiasm for others to succeed was exceptional because he believed and acted on the premise that giving was not a one-way street and, as it never implicates loss, cannot be deemed a sacrifice. That outlook framed him as a wise and hearty but troubling enigma. It would have been easier to continue seeing all humans as self-indulgent, manipulative, and merciless, if not malicious, than to be stuck, hanging on to the hopeful beanstalk he encouraged me to climb.
Slowly, I pulled the trigger of an empty gun, that was myself, and fell into a statuesque existence. Ironically, Marty's illuminated and gracious way of being stalled me and had me parked in the desert of solitude. My hunger to escape from the perplexing, gamey business of professional and personal relationships became undeniable. I stopped working on behalf of the clients I represented, and by releasing Laura, my personal assistant, I all but ceased judicious maintenance of my administrative affairs and personal care. Fortunately, there were no children or pets to look after in my cheerless universe. Why and how I managed to keep my remodeled and Zen-like abode clean and in order, I don't know. Although a house does not make a home, it is fundamentally stationary and reliable. Perhaps I just wanted to keep and love what I could trust; the unmovable, the ultimate unmovable.
Every morning, sitting on the barstool at my kitchen counter, I would have a bowl of granola doused in soya milk and topped with morsels of banana, a bit of blueberry fruit spread on a couple of slices of unbuttered whole grain toast, lightly peppered scrambled eggs with a splash or two of hot sauce over them, a glass of grapefruit or blood-orange juice, and a large cup of jamoke, aka "Joe." Lacking coffee, I would have just laid in bed without a book accompanied by CNN, an occasional Lakers basketball game, and my full-time slug-like verve. No, depression didn't kill my desire to eat and appreciate my rose garden; it just wilted my thoughts, foresight, and motivation to coexist. Still, along with being able to drive and carry out everyday activities like going to the bathroom, showering, shaving, clipping my nails, and contemplating all the ways I might have gone wrong with, to name a few, Katherine, Eve, Tamber, Elizabeth, Kelly, Mina, Jane, Sheryl, Kimber, Natty, Melissa, and Eddie, my appetite seemed to be a lingering bright star. Who was Eddie? In short, for now, he was a senior Chinese business partner of mine, not a bed partner; however, I saw little difference between the two. As far as I was concerned, they all bludgeoned my trusting heart and mind. However, aside from the heartaches and headaches, I did have the capacity to go on functioning physically, even with a smile at times. What seemed to be hopeful signs caused me and others to be confused and wary of believing I was indeed depressed. Since the overt symptoms can vary and be concealed — bones don't protrude the skin, and orifices don't ooze blood — it takes great effort to comprehend and explain, let alone prove an insurance claim.
Twice a day, I regularly sat in my gazebo, for a couple of half-hour stints, on the uncomfortable but expensive antique wooden Thai bench I bought on Hollywood's Melrose Avenue. I convinced myself it looked so stylish that it must be enjoyable without covering its uniqueness under cushions. Furthermore, if I used it for more than exterior decoration, the Design Center's, aka Blue Whale's, exorbitant price tag would be more digestible and less insane. Every week, my gardeners did a fantastic job tending to the surrounding yard and the diverse flora, especially the roses. How they flourished! They grew unusually tall in a vivid rainbow of colors, seemingly always reaching for the heavens. However, one day, after returning from grocery shopping, I found that the already absent gardeners had hacked them down to a third of their height. They looked like I felt; each stem was subjected to inconsideration, capriciousness, and non-communication. I was speechless and helpless.
What could I have done? I wasn't there to supervise and remind the workers, "I want the roses to grow extraordinarily tall." Of course, I knew their intentions were not bad, but I hadn't told them to do anything different than usual. Does everybody need supervision? If so, where is the Supervisor of the Supervisor? I wanted to know and chat with him/her/it. Looking back now, I handled the moment reasonably well. Though the grounds appeared diminished with each rose that was cut, my grief over the slaughter only lasted a few days. Lest we forget that one snipped rose, every act, affects the whole. Fortunately, I had taken pictures of the blooms and stored them on my computer. A few days later, thanks to this experience, IÂ transferred the images into Photoshop and, as a result, eventually transformed my despair into the miraculous 10-year adventure that would take me back to Paris, Europe, and the source of my being.
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