a new classic

A 1950 Plymouth Special Deluxe sits neglected on the side of New York Route 417 a few miles east of Wellsville, New York.  Where I-86/NY17 veers northerly after Corning NY, Route 417 proceeds westbound, much closer to the Pennsylvania line through oil country.  It’s a nice drive.  The big highway is far enough away that it hasn’t sucked the life out of the towns on 417.  The two roads intersect again in Olean.  My photo from June 23, 2009.


She told me the only time it would ever be appropriate was New Years Eve, that any other time it simply wouldn’t work. It didn’t fit with the rest of the witchy wardrobe she’d built up over the years, a collection of blacks and reds, lace and temptation. This thing was something almost entirely foreign, and yet she’d fallen in love with it, gold and sequined, cut in a way that I was convinced must have been tailored to her every curve.

Patience was never something that came natural to me, childish excitement would mix with anxiety like some basement-made pipe bomb of emotion. Surely, I tried to convince her, it couldn’t hurt to try it on, right? Just a peek would do. It wasn’t that I wanted a model, it was more akin to wonderment. I wanted to see her in everything, convinced down to my core that there wasn’t a piece of clothing she couldn’t improve just by draping it over her body. She’d tell me all the time that she was anything but perfect, but she was looking in with biased eyes.

The chips in the polish on her nails, almost always some dark color. The crooked beam of her grin. The lion’s mane of hair that could go from pin straight to mid-80’s Sunset Strip concert at a moments notice. A stray scar here or there, a cigarette burn she’d always managed to keep concealed. Perfectly imprecise eyeliner wings. It all merged into this astounding incandescence, a full fucking galaxy condensed into one tiny human being.

Somehow I made it to New Years Eve without combusting. The dress sat in the back of my mind and the back of her closet, champagne and fireworks rolled into something snug and low-cut, earmarked for new beginnings. Trying to be the man she deserved, I ended up on the job instead of at the party. Grinding out money from the man, the only thing I could think about was missing her in that dress, missing out on the champagne-fizz kiss, missing out on her in the first minutes of the new year. When midnight hit, my phone buzzed in my pocket, my own little reminder of the ball dropping.

She’d sent a picture message, doing her best to hide the loneliness in her eyes, her dress a somber blue. I told myself that next year, even if I had to work double-shifts every night for months, even if I had to crawl the distance over broken glass, I’d see that dress, and I’d get that kiss.

So Sherlock deduced that Faith is suicidal because she’s walking around with a cane, no coat on, a gun, and no plan to get home. Which we are then, on camera, explicitly told parallels ASIP John Watson.

So he comes up with a reason to have Faith by his side so he can help her through her danger night.

Which is not at all dissimilar to having John tag along to angelo’s, go on a chase, and spark a joy for life again.

Sherlock knew. When he summoned John across London on that fateful first night “just to send a text”, it wasn’t because he was being a prat, he was trying to save John’s life.


“Othello” by William Shakespeare

New York Theatre Workshop, 2016

Starring David Oyelowo, Daniel Craig, David Wilson Barnes, Marsha Stephanie Blake, Rachel Brosnahan, Blake DeLong, Glenn Fitzgerald, Slate Holmgren, Anthony Michael Lopez, Matthew Maher, Nikki Massoud, Kyle Vincent Terry & Finn Wittrock