by Ethan Hawke
“It’s just a dumb play,” Big Sam offered.
“It’s better than my dumb life.”
She burst into tears and hit Big Sam on the chest. He grabbed her gently and several of her friends held her and told her to calm down.
“I DON’T WANT TO CALM DOWN!” she screamed and ran to the back of the bar towards the bathrooms. Big Sam chased her the whole way. In the confusion, I slipped out into the snow still holding her final slip of paper.
Shannon McQuarrie
28 Scott Ave.
Grovers Mill, New Jersey
08550
(It’s my parents’ house—but they will live there forever. Please stay in touch.)
I wished I would write her, but knew I wouldn’t. Planning on having a smoke and going back in, I felt the cold on my face, and I realized it was over. I wanted to say goodbye to Big Sam, and Zeke, but didn’t. Looking down at the snowy sidewalk and then up at the whirling lights of the yellow taxis moving all around me, I took one step, then another.
Back at the Mercury, I went upstairs and let the cleaning lady go. The kids were fast asleep but the puppy still needed to pee, so I risked one quick stroll in the snow. Still buzzy from the drinks, I hummed to myself and checked my voice for what might have been the last time. I’d made it. My nervous tic was leaving me as mysteriously as it arrived. When I looked up, the falling snow seemed to be dropping like stars in a meteor shower. The ice was hitting the sparkling sidewalk and the whole universe around me shimmered in prayer. Wind numbed my cheeks. I felt like I was walking through outer space. Either that, or I was strolling along the bottom of the cold ocean, where every sound is muted and safe.
Memories of other winters and previous snowstorms seemed to sift together. I could see my future as a divorcé. Angry, uncomfortable parent-teacher conferences; trading the kids at airports on Thanksgiving; being seated at different tables at my son’s wedding—I could see it all lined up in my future. I could even intuit that I would fall in love again and how someday I would be happy. I walked through this storm. For a second, I could see my whole life, what was left of it, ahead of me. And it was not going to be all that much different than the days behind.
All these last months, as my marriage collapsed, I’d believed that if I loved my wife, I would need to stay with her. But walking in the lightness of the new snow, I could tell that I did love her and I was going to leave her. She was a woman unlike any other. I was smart to have let myself commit to her and to have had these children. They were wonderful and I was lucky to be their father. It was also obvious, however, that being married had for some reason tangled me up, and I needed to straighten out. There was no real choice involved. I had taken such pride in my marriage, in our love, like a peacock strutting around, thinking he was responsible for his feathers.
I looked around me and absorbed the peace of a sprawling bustling city stopped dead, socked in snow. My puppy jumped and barked, twisting and sliding. I was instantly wildly grateful just to be awake and witness all this stillness. I don’t ever want to die, I thought, I want to live forever. New York seemed like a toy replica of a city—silent and unreal. We are told the snowflakes falling around us are each unique—but they are also all falling, all have six points, and all melt in your hand. Are they so different?
When I walked back into the Mercury, the lobby was empty. Nothing was moving.
Even old sleepy Bart was nowhere to be seen. I stood in silence waiting for the elevator. When the bell chimed and the doors opened, I felt compelled not to enter. Instead, I stepped away and let the doors close. The dog and I decided to take the stairs.
The back staircase of the Mercury Hotel is like a small enchanted castle stair. It smells ancient and sweet. The steps are narrow and made of a dull white marble. Somehow it still feels grand, like it has been, and will be, there forever. In the center of each heavy stone you can see a slight indentation where, over the years, feet have worn a path moving ever-upwards. At first, the wear is obvious. As you ascend, it grows subtler. Walking up, step after step, you feel yourself following a well-worn line. The higher you rise, the narrower and the steeper the steps become. The tread path is less obvious and more difficult to see. The floors no longer have numbers. When you breathlessly arrive at a landing, somewhere in the middle, the trail disappears completely. All you see is another staircase.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank every actor I’ve ever worked with for the inspiration and friendship. I’d also like to thank Eric Simonoff, Jordan Pavlin, and Mark Richard. I owe a joyous debt of gratitude to my first reader, best friend, business partner, co-parent, wife, and final reader, Ryan Hawke. Lastly, I need to express gratitude to my whole family, especially,
A Note About the Author
A four-time Academy Award nominee, twice for writing and twice for acting, Ethan Hawke has starred in the films Dead Poets Society, Reality Bites, Gattaca, and Training Day as well as in Richard Linklater’s Before Trilogy and Boyhood. He is the author of Rules for a Knight, The Hottest State, and Ash Wednesday. He lives in Brooklyn with his four children and his wife.
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