DIONYSUS
A woman, a man, and the god of wine
Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Semi-Finalist
On an extraordinary night when the Upper West Side is dressed in black, I am about to meet a man who will alter my psyche forever. As the neighborhood copes with a blackout, I venture down the cavern of stairs in my four-story building off Riverside Drive and wander into Riverside Park.
I favor Riverside over an impromptu, candle-lit block party on 74th Street. Later I will learn that a grid from Central Park to Riverside morphs into one festive block-party, and people will compare their magical camaraderie to the grand blackout of 2003. Booze and music flow in equal proportions despite an underlying current of annoyance. Nobody knows for sure when the electricity will come back, and everybody relies on air-conditioners to sleep in the oppressive heat.
I wish now I would turn left rather than right when I reach the street, but the moon-bathed midnight seduces me. I am lured to a shadowy path, through a black arched tunnel, and down massive steps to the Hudson River. The night water, like the entire park, glows as though it were part of a surreal fantasy. That is exactly what I am about to enter.
At the walkway on the river, I have a choice to turn left toward the pier, which will be populated with night-revelers escaping the heat, or to the right toward the Boat Basin. I turn right.
I walk only yards before I notice a solitary figure sitting on a bench. Although I normally don’t converse with strangers, the mystical quality of the night compels me to sit beside him and enjoy a magnificent view of the tumbling river adorned by moonlight. The lights of New Jersey twinkle across the river, but no streetlamps distort the night on our side. We are temporarily free from the ever-present haze of light behind us. I am released from electrical clutter. For a moment, I feel approachable.
“Good evening.” I say to the man.
“Lovely. Perfect.” The man replies. “You haven’t chosen a party? Most young people are making the most of this exquisite opportunity. If you listen closely, you can hear the roar of their jubilation.”
Immediately I like him. His countenance is graceful and his voice mellow. With lunar rays glistening on his silver hair, the man looks ageless and, if I listen to my imagination, celestial.
“I’d prefer tranquility on a night like this.” I muse. “My life is not in a good place right now. There’s not a party out there that will make me forget my problems.”
With searing eyes, black against his ivory skin, he gazes at me. “I’m sorry to hear that. Would you like to talk? I’m a very good listener.”
I do—I want to talk. The easy rapport between us feels natural. I trust him instantly, and this surprises me. I haven’t trusted anyone since coming to Manhattan two years ago.
“My career is on extended hiatus. I’m an actor. I came here to be on Broadway. I bet that sounds stupid. Everybody knows the odds. I’d be better off playing the lottery.”
His smirk is more like a cat’s purr than a laugh. “Ah, yes. Maps should state the truth.” He points a bony finger to the sky. “What is the clear route to the Great White Way?” He lowers his hand. “There isn’t one. Like the traffic worming through the Lincoln Tunnel, all lanes are gridlocked. Too many hopefuls, too little work. Thousands of pretty actors for a few petty roles.”
“Exactly.” I feel like the man is reading my life. “I see you understand how it is in theatre.”
“I have lived in theatre forever.” He states.
