In honor of my love and respect for Your Story Productions, a documentary film company, owned and operated by my extremely talented, handsome and Emmy-winning brother-in-law (www.yourstoryfilms.com) - I’m SO not afraid of the shameless plug – I have decided to entitle my latest column “Your Story”.
Erik documents actual life stories (have you checked it out yet? www.yourstoryfilms.com), I’ve decided to shake his idea up a bit. As many of you know, I like it shaken – not stirred.
People in New York are endlessly interesting. Whether its someone on stilts, in full gold body paint, someone who has a severe case of bedhead at 5pm, or someone who appears to be pretty boring, but there’s something in their eyes that screams “freak” (that’s my M.O. by the way) – everyone is interesting. And even if they’re actually not, I have decided to make them so. I’m using my imagination. Rather, I’m attempting to resurrect my imagination from the depths in which it has been hiding since I discovered boys.
But that’s neither here nor there. I’m planning to take strangers of interest that I happen across in New York, and I’m giving them a story. What I think their story is, was and will be. Hopefully, I’ll manage some accompanying pictures without having to become a voyeur – but not this time. This time, I’ll paint the picture for you…
Episode 1: The Old Man and the Hudson
Last week, when it was all gray and dreary and rainy, I decided to brave the elements to take Gertie for the long walk that she deserves. Usually, we walk long the west side esplanade, through Hudson River Park, and upwards from there. Usually, its packed with bikers, runners, walkers and other dogs. But not this day. This day, it was Gertie and I and a million raindrops. It was quiet and blustery and the Hudson was choppy, capped with white foam.
Just when I started to think about how eerie it was to be out there with no one in sight, I saw a figure in the distance. I immediately wished I had my camera, as the scene was so picturesque, it seemed like a set.
Just before the sidewalk turns inward, marking the end of Battery Park City, stood a man.
Between the stillness of the evening – the unmoving trees, the lampposts, and benches – he almost appeared to be a statue. Everything was light gray; the water, the sky, and even the grass appeared so. The man, however, was dark, and stood apart from his backdrop. He had on what one can only describe as a “rain slicker” – but not of the new, Patagonia persuasion, but weathered in such a way that I would have guessed that that slicker was new when he was in his twenties – and from the looks of it, that was a lifetime ago. As I approached, and he glanced at me over his left shoulder, I saw that he was as weathered as his jacket. The skin on his face told a thousand stories, as if he had earned every line by fighting for them. He had gray scruff, and brown, sad eyes, and that’s all I saw. As quickly as he’d glanced at us, he was again facing the water, fishing pole in hand, not moving.
What is his story? What brought him to the Hudson, on a Tuesday evening, in the pouring rain? Did he catch something? A fish? A cold? A tire?
Here’s what I think:
He’s not out there to catch a fish. And even if he did, he’d never eat it. He’d throw it back, and cast again. He’s not in it for the fish.
His name is Charles Finn. He goes by the name Barley – because his little sister called him that before she could say “Ch”. The nickname stuck, and he now introduces himself as such.
He was born in Maine. His father was a plumber, but became one only when Barley was conceived. Before that, he had been a fisherman, but changed careers in order to be home for more than a couple of months a year. His Mother was a seamstress with a wild imagination and an entrepreneurial spirit. She had a lovely singing voice, and had always dreamed of being on Broadway. His parents met at a high school dance.
His sister was three years younger than Barley, and her name was Claire. At age eight, Claire fell through the ice of a frozen river, and drown. Barley was there, and was unable to save her.
After Claire’s death, his parents moved the family to New York. His Father became disconnected, and thought maybe he’d get back into fishing. His Mother thought she’d sing on Broadway. Neither of these things ended up happening.
They moved to Hell’s Kitchen, and Barley became a bully. He wore a newsboy hat that he rarely took off – and that’s how everyone knew him. When he was 16, he turned his aggression to baseball, and was drafted at 19 by the Yankee’s, as their secret weapon. His fastball was clocked at 100 miles per hour, exactly.
Sadly, Barley has never donned the pinstripes. During Spring Training, he met Annie. She was a petite brunette who liked to wear polka-dots. In many ways, she reminded him of his Mother, as she, too, was a dreamer.
They fell instantly in love, and spent day and night planning what their lives would be like when he was a famous pitcher for the New York Yankees. They imagined that he would be able to find her in the crowd, because he would look for a polka-dotted dress (navy and white, of course) and he would blow a kiss to her before every first pitch. She’d be his good luck charm. She promised to never miss a game.
One night after practice, he offered to drive Annie home (she was there to watch). Barley had one hand on the wheel and one hand holding hers. They sang along to the radio. The next memory that Barley has is one of excruciating pain.
Later, Annie recalled the events of the accident. The deer, the swerve, and the tree they hit. The car flipped, as did they – and although Annie walked away, unscathed, Barley was not so lucky. His arm – his pitching arm – was crushed.
Barley recovered, but his pitch never did. He returned to New York with Annie, they were married, and they moved to a 6th floor walk-up in the West Village. Barley began plumbing to help his Father, who was ailing, and could no longer handle his workload. Annie began to audition for Broadway shows. Mrs. Finn was both thrilled and envious.
Every day, after they had visited their last client, Barley’s Father insisted that the two of them fish. It was a required daily ritual, and although Barley wasn’t much of a fisherman, his Father swore that there was no better way to let the world go – if only for a moment – and to think and worry about nothing. Barley soon learned that his Father was absolutely right. Mr. Finn understood the disappointment of dreams unrealized, and even in his final days, he joined Barley on the dock to forget things that happened - and maybe more importantly, things that didn't. The two of them never talked when they fished. They just thought, and worried about nothing.
After the first April shower, Mr. Finn surprised Barley with a charcoal gray rain slicker. The day before, it was raining as though it would never stop, and Barley was unprepared. When he came home that night, Annie told him it would take a year for her to ring him out, and asked that he skip fishing on the rainy evenings. The next day, it rained again, and Barley reported to work to find a box on his desk, tied with one, single red bow. The slicker smelled of plastic and sat stiffly over Barley’s work clothes. But when he came home that night bone dry, Annie retracted her request. Of all of the birthday and Christmas presents he had received from his Father – that is the only gift he can remember.
The years passed, and Barley took over the plumbing business when his Father died, and Annie became a successful off-Broadway star. She had the acting chops and the vivaciousness to compensate for what she lacked in singing voice. Mrs. Finn was Annie’s biggest fan, aside from Barley – and she never missed a performance.
More years passed, and all of a sudden, it was last week - the 1st week in June, 2009. Barley and Annie moved from the 6th floor walk-up to a condo in Battery Park City, as it was becoming difficult for Barley to tackle the stairs.
Annie was just cast in a new play. Barley is still running his Father’s business. His Mother lived to be 96 and passed away only a year ago.
They never had children – they never seemed to have time. The way he sees it is that that's the way it was always supposed to be.
He doesn't fish every night. He's too old and too tired. He only fishes in the rain. He only fishes in his slicker. He only fishes when its just him, the gray of the Hudson, the gray of the sky, and a few moments of nothing.
Except, of course, when Gertie and I walk by.
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