Dark Harbor

For the win

My friend Melissa urged me to submit something for a writing challenge called One Room One Hour, a short essay challenge based on the premise of a project by Jack Wieland titled, 100 ROOMS AT THE MET. The challenge is to sit in a room and write about it for an hour. 1000 words max. I thought about doing it.

I thought about writing it the night we went to The Roxy in SF to see Fast & Furious. I wished I had brought my notebook. I would have written about the theater itself. Dated. Red velvet chairs with wooden arms. The popcorn bags come in one size and the butter leaks through the paper. I would have written about the rowdy crowd. About how like, if 16th and Mission were a person, and that person was about 500 different people, and if all 500 of those people were at the Roxy, that was the crowd. I might have written about how I showed up in the jeans I wear everyday. A hoodie. My patent leather Birkenstocks with the big gold buckle. My hair up in a clip. No make up. At 50 you’re invisible. I forget that sometimes. I show up and feel out of place. But then I remember literally no one cares. I’m much more tunnel than bridge these days. Literally, no one cares. Not caring is punk rock. I would have written about the live, unhinged, bawdy drag show that kicked it off.

I thought about writing it from the second floor of the cancer center where I get Chemo infusions. I could have written about the nurses station in the middle of the room, surrounded by the reclining chairs where the patients sit. About how they are heated and vibrate. Kind of like massage chairs but not. But I appreciate the effort. I could have written about the plastic chairs that don’t recline that Billy and Steph sit in for the full four hours, never complaining. I could have written about the beige curtains with paisley print you can pull around your chair area for privacy. I might have described the generic paintings of vistas. Who picks out the art for hospitals by the way? And can someone fire them? I wouldn’t have written about the other people in chairs around the room. I wouldn’t want them writing about me. But I do wonder what they are in for. Some are old, some are younger. Some look very sick. Some don’t look sick at all. Some join Zoom meetings from their chairs and use fake backgrounds. I wonder their stories. Their histories. Their futures. I wonder what it was like the moment they told the people they love that they have cancer. Once, there was a very pregnant woman. It made me cry to see her there. But then the nurse told me she was just there for fluids and that they do all kinds of infusions. So now, of course, I’m even more curious when I look around the room. I probably would have written about the cranberry juice. I don’t know what it is about hospital cranberry juice, but it hits different. I could write a whole essay about that cranberry juice. But I don’t know, it felt too heavy handed to write from the Chemo infusion room. A cheap shot.

You know where I spend a lot of time? Right here in this chair. Writing, scrolling, reading, spacing out. So I wrote about this room. The essay (below) was posted to Substack earlier today. I even received a check for winning. Cancer is losses and wins. This is a win. This win actually means a lot to me. Thanks for the nudges, Melissa.

Dark Harbor