Before the Red Ribbon
Before the red ribbon, I would press the snooze button once, maybe twice, then shower, dress, and eat breakfast: toast & peanut butter, orange juice.
Before the red ribbon, I read the morning paper, or a book, or took a nap during my morning commute. At Union Station I would transfer from a GO train to the Red Rocket and rattle past four subway stops to Wellesley station. As I exited the station, every day I would step over a scribble in the sidewalk reminding me the “Cities should be cold.” I wondered who might have etched that saying when the concrete was wet, without attribution.
Before the red ribbon, I would plod up the walkway between the buildings through one parkette into another, passing urbanites walking teeny-tiny dogs. Sometimes the dogs were dressed in outrageous outfits. Once I passed a man wearing a mucky housecoat.
I would arrive at the office building, slip through a black metal gate that was permanently ajar, and walk up three stairs to my day job.
At 3:15 p.m. I will do all this in reverse. Not backwards; in reverse order.
Before the red ribbon, surrounded by mushroom grey walls, I would process cheques for our clients. Sometimes this made them happy, sometimes it did not. Sometimes my boss was in a good mood, most times she was not.
Because I worked at a prominent agency for television and movie actors, we received many calls from people desperate to get into show business and many more from established performers looking for new representation. To those who did not know it well, my workplace seemed glamorous.
Before the red ribbon, a prospective client called to cancel his appointment. He was due to arrive any moment, so he apologized for the short notice. Then he apologized again. He was upset; his voice wavered. But having been at the job a while, I knew how to reschedule without making the agents angry. Talent agents did not like actors who cancelled appointments at the last minute. It was a mark of things to come, they would say.
I said what I could to calm him. I said it wasn’t worth getting so upset about. I said that we would reschedule and that I would take the heat for booking it for the wrong day.
He said he did not know if he could go on. Then he began to sob.
Before the red ribbon, I did not know what to say next. Then he told me that he had just returned from New York. Today is a loss, he said. Tomorrow does not matter.
Yesterday my doctor told me, he said. I have AIDS.
The caller apologized again then abruptly hung up. I stared at the telephone received in my hand. This was August 17, 1989. Before the red ribbon.
The essay appeared, in slightly different form, in NOWW magazine, December 2010.