SIGNS (Post #1)

August 1996

With a grin from ear to ear but a heart rate of a marathon runner, I wait for my luggage at the baggage claim area of La Guardia Airport. I am not sure how I managed the three huge suitcases and two carry-ons, but I make it to the yellow taxi line with a look of utter astonishment. I made it to New York City. I was about to get into a taxi all by myself. I confidently direct my cab driver to my destination, all the while checking the cheat sheet my Resident Director dictated to me over the phone. I put the cheat sheet back into my file folder, toss the folder in the back window and gaze out as we drive over the Triborough Bridge. We arrive on the Upper West Side and I step out of my first NYC Taxi. There's a doorman and 20 floors of stories awaiting me. The driver slams the trunk closed. I tip him. The doorman asks if I would like a cigarette. I ponder my freedom to decide for myself and realize I left my file folder filled with every single important document an 18 year old boy from Iowa could possibly need in the back window sill. Documents that include my birth certificate, insurance papers, social security card, bank documents, traveler's checks, you name it. I leave my luggage at the front door of my building and proceed to chase the taxi from 77th and Broadway to 73rd and Broadway. I feel like I am running faster than I ever did while competing in high school. I jump the median on Broadway and scream at the old lady who is opening the door to my fate just outside Citarella. I scare her enough to have her raise her hands over her head as if I were to arrest her. I retrieve my files and plop down on the curb to cry and, also, to decided if I should listen to what the universe might be trying to tell me.