I Love New York

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

I offered up my place for Heather and her roommates. The fire was close by and their parent’s weren’t. I would have done it for any friend, and at that point, we were just that.

What the hell, I was carefree, about to get on a plane for a wedding and close the book on Mission #4. It was by far the most emotionally taxing mission, but I reveled in the ups and downs. I just need to pull it back for the next one. It needs to be far less life-serious.

I took Jetblue from Burbank to JFK. And believe me, no one had to remind me of what happened two weeks ago. I am not a huge fan of flying, as I once had an emergency landing out of Dulles. But I am pragmatic as well. There are so many flights that leave each day, and rarely are problems encountered. My problem put me way ahead of the odds.

My friend Alex met me at the airport. He lived in Manhattan and has been there since finishing up at Columbia. He is by far my brightest friend, both in knowledge and emotional intelligence. This guy has a universal understanding second to none.

We both grew up together, made forts under the circular tables at our parents' country club dinners and even learned to drive together. He was one of the few offspring of my parent’s friends who wasn’t a complete brat or waste case. Even at the young age when anything you see belongs to you, he was always a benevolent soul, understanding the principles of sharing and grace. I own my soft side to Alex. He taught me well by example.

Growing up, Alex and Rob were inseparable. We would swim at each other’s houses, watch movies and have sleepovers almost every day in the summer. If we didn’t see each other, we spoke on the phone. We both shared so much growing up. Not just our interests, but also our dysfunctional families. They were both laced with the bourgeois sweetness and familial pitter patter that ensnared so many East coast families. In the west, status can be obtained without education. I know many rich, dumb guys, especially in entertainment.

But in my hometown, strength and success were gauged in only one way, education. It was a hierarchy measured in day schools and Ivy League entrance exams. It was tough to escape, especially when I refused to attend the prep school my grandfather graduated from at 15. Now he sat squarely on their board, awaiting the entrance of his first grandson. An entrance that would never come. That was a hard one for the young Rob Lowe to overcome. But Alex was in a similar boat. And with a unified front, we convinced our parents to let us go to the public school our first year. After that, my parents never brought it up again. Either they were happy with the school or they thought the damage had already been done. In some ways, it had.

In the few instances Alex and I diverged in similarity, we made up for with empathy. Alex has always been a great soundboard for my adolescent problems. Even then, he was an old soul hidden behind an Izod and braces. My sister had the biggest crush on him. Even at his wedding, I could see her non-reciprocal spark being smoldered. When I watched her watch him, I saw a sort of sadness. Not a pining one, but a loss nonetheless. I wasn't really sure if that was because she was saying goodbye to her past or her future. Either way, I understood her pain. I knew one day I would experience something similar. Maybe sooner than I expected.

But after graduation, things changed. He went to Columbia for film school and I went to UCLA to get away from my family. We were as far apart geographically as two countrymen could get. Whenever I got homesick for Pennsylvania, it was mainly due to the absence of Alex. But as much as space is the ultimate separator, time is the ultimate healer. After the first year, my life was filled with new friends and a new life, one that Alex only filled on a long-distance call or summer road trip. Proximity could not be fought.

Alex had been married and divorced. Seems he made the same mistake as I did, getting caught up with an actress (no offense to actresses, UB). But, unfortunately his mistake included exchanging vows. Mine only involved exchanging body liquids and Christmas presents. I was there for him through his divorce, finally finding the maturity to balance a long-distance friendship.

I got off the plane, bleary eyed and weak from 3,000 miles. Luckily, after a million flights I finally remembered to keep my toothbrush and toothpaste close by. I was able to make amends with my three jack and cokes and my fertile cotton mouth with ease.

I stood outside JFK, taking in the New York dusk. So many fucking sounds in this town, so much movement. I stood outside blank and waited for my phone to ring. I needed a refresh before my night out on the New York town. I knew Alex had planned something good. He always did. I sat down on a bench and stared at what could possibly stand as the best ass I have ever laid eyes on. But a buzz in my pocket broke my concentration. I will never know if it truly was.

I looked at my phone, Alex.

“Hey, I’m outside, where are you?” I said, watching the ass walk off into the sunset.

“Look straight ahead, away from that chick's ass.” he said.

I smiled and looked around, as clueless as ever.

“All I can sea are rows of black cars. Looks like the fucking Emmys or a funeral. Actually, it could be both,” I said rambling. The joke came off half-baked.

“Shut up and walk straight ahead, and aim for the attractive guy waving.”

I looked and walked. Alex was in the back of a black town car, groundhogging out the half-window.

“What the fuck, dude?” I said, smiling and walking.

“I got us a car,” he said. By this time I was hearing him better in person than on the phone, even with the sounds around me.

He got out of the car and ripped me a manhug.

“How are you buddy,” he said, tilting his head sideways and smiling, ”What’s up with the upstairs?," he said, referring to my hair, "Are you like, Sgt.Pepper or something?”

“That’s a good one, really.” I searched for a comeback, but there was none. Not with this guy. The only thing I had on him was his divorce, and that's hard to weave into a comeback.

He motioned his hand to the open door in a slow, grandiose motion.

“Got us a car for the night,” he said.

“Dude, why did you do that? I could have taken the bus or train, or whatever the fuck you guys take here.”

“I wouldn’t think of it. Besides, we can go to a few places tonight and not have to worry about anything. I’ve got it as long as we want it.”

“That sounds like a bit of a challenge.”

“Well, you know I’m a bit of a lightweight. Remember the Hillclimb?”

“You puked on that one girls lap, Tricia something,” I said, trying to match the name with the vivid recollection of that night.

“Anderson,” Alex said, embarrassed both by the event and that he remembered her name.

“God, she was pissed, I think you could have hit that too.”

“I did, dipshit. She came to the city my sophomore year and looked me up. The need for a tour guide obviously trumped her memory of getting violated by my heave. Get in,” he said motioning.

I got in the car and settled back. It was a regular towncar, not some giant limo. Thank God. Limos creep me out. They’re total remnants of the 80s.

“So are you seeing anyone?” he asked.

“Fuck, first question dude? No 'How are you, how was your flight?'"

"How are you, Rob? And your flight, how was that, pleasant?" he said, happily sarcastic.

"God, you're a bad actor. Anyway, to answer your question, No, not really, I just sort of met this girl, actually she’s at my place now, but, we’re just getting to know each other.”

“Wait, you are living with this girl and are just starting to get to know each other? Driver,” he said, “do you perhaps have Smooth Operator or an equally sassy Sade number you could put on for my friend here?”

The driver laughed. He’d been paying attention.

“It’s not what you think. We’re not living together. I invited this girl and her roommates to stay at my place because of the fires.”

“Oh, yea, shit the fires. They weren’t close to you were they?”

“No, not close to me, but close to her. So I said they could stay there.”

“You’re a good man, Rob Lowe.”

“I sense some inferences in your tone. Perhaps you are suggesting I have an ulterior motive?” I asked slyly.

“Not at all,” he said, even more sarcastically.

“All right, let’s get back on task. What are we doing? I need some food before I get cranky.”

“You’ll get some. We’re going to dinner with some friends and then hit a few bars. Tomorrow, we’ll drive home to PA and maybe crash the bar part of the rehearsal dinner.”

“Ah, we can go to Shenanigans. I’ll be in the mood for a $5 pitcher.”

“Yea, you won’t find many of them here.”

“No shit.”

“Ok, can I go home and clean up a bit?”

“Clean up, c’mon, you look the part. Rough and slightly wounded Beatle guy. Girls will want to save you.”

“Sounds like you do.”

“Are you offering? Anyway, you can take a quick shower if we have time, but we need to pick the girls up by 8.”

“Whoa, girls? You said, friends. I distinctly heard you say friends.”

He smiled.

“Don’t set me up with a blind date, I just want to chill. I’m half drunk, I have musky flight balls. You’re killing me, Alex.”

“Don't be sweating me Rob, we’ll get you a shower, or at least drop by a Duane Reed to get you some powder. A fresh powder-up downstairs can really take the tang off.”

“All right, whatever. This is your trip. I’m just along for the ride. Are the girls hot at least?”

“Mine is. Yours, I’ve never seen. But she seemed eager to meet Rob Lowe.”

He held on my name, and smiled.

“You didn’t.”

“Yea, she’s expecting Rob Lowe. I never really clarified things, and people here think what they want. They know I'm in the industry and maybe think I'm friends with Rob Lowe. Well, I guess I am technically. I'm rambling, anyway, I figured you had more experience with explaining the name thing to people."

“So let me get this timetable straight. We’re going to the drugstore, I’m powdering up 'downstairs,' and that magic powder will magically transfom me into your Wingman. From there, I will spend an evening explaining the misunderstanding to a disappointed girl while singing your merits and bringing up old high school stories to make you look good in front of some girl you like? And tomorrow, $5 pitchers?”

“That about covers it.”

“I love New York,” I said, sarcastically.

“I love you too buddy. Let's kill this town.”