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Can you hear the drums, Fernando?
Sometimes we
find ourselves needing to take a new route. It’s OK. We never
regret the adventures we take; we only regret the ones we don’t.
My long-held
desire to be part of a documentary film team led me to produce a
film about a Boston doctor: Ryan Flesher, M.D. As I reflect back
at the start of this new route taken, I have no idea how I got
beyond the first stop sign.
At first, I
found film jargon to be a bit disarming. For example, preparing
to interview an internist from New York City, Pete said, “Why
don’t we just meet him in Central Park and shoot
him?” Concerned I may have fallen in with the wrong crowd, it
took a moment or two before I realized we were talking about
cameras. This is a good thing because, frankly, my local
shooting range has banned me for a “little” past incident. Some
people can be so rigid.
Off to New
York we go and meet the doctor before he boards the early
morning train to St. Vincent’s Hospital. Descending the subway
stairs, we fold like fish into the stream of commuters. Film
equipment is dangling from my every limb. The train doors
hiss open and
the surging crowd knocks my bags to the ground as I drag them
onto the train. Jostle for a seat.
Whew! Sit
down for one stop. Stand up. Get out.
I hear the
doors thump
shut behind me. A sense of doom trickles down my arms. My
pocketbook. It’s on the train now heading southbound through the
tunnel. I consider chasing it down. Perplexing that nowhere in
my 54-year- old brain do I acknowledge only cartoon characters
are capable of such feats. About the only thing that stops me
dead is my fear of running into a rat, in which case, I would
spin right off the planet.
Words from
earlier that morning keep reverberating.
“When you are
part of a film crew,” Ryan said, “it doesn’t matter if the
camera blows up; one must remain calm at all times.”
Slowly, I inch
away from the platform willing myself to behave in a calm,
professional demeanor. That’s when I break into a run. Arms and
legs flailing, I barrel through the crowd like my pants are on
fire screaming, “My pocketbook is on the
trainnnnnn!”
Well, that was
a showstopper.
Think, think, think.
I conclude that at first break, I will comb every
train, street, bar and pool hall in New York City. I don’t know
where the pocketbook is, I only know one thing: I am not calling
my husband and telling him I lost my pocketbook on the New York
subway.
Ryan turns to
me and says, “Do you want to use my cell phone to call Greg?”
You would think he had just asked me if I wanted a Tetanus shot.
Through a clenched jaw I say, “I am
not telling
Greg!” Ryan is perplexed. Ryan is not a woman.
Hours later, I
duck into a CVS for a snack. Out on the sidewalk Ryan is
gesturing wildly and mouthing, “Greg is on the phone.”
Oh, horror. I
quickly motion for Ryan to throw his phone down to the pavement
and stomp on it. He thrusts the phone into my hands.
“Nannnnncy”
Greg says, “I have been trying to reach you for hours! Some man
by the name of Fernando called the house and told me he found
your pocketbook on the subway. He’s trying to return it to you!”
Incredible. Heartwarming. Inspiring.
I once saw a
sign outside of a chapel that read, “To make a mistake is human.
To cover it up is even more human.” Trust me; all of that energy
thrown out there to hide a mistake doesn’t just drop into the
dirt. Instead, it bangs a u-turn mid-air and morphs into a
cannon ball. Before you know it, you’re standing in a CVS buying
a Snicker’s bar and you get clocked off the head.
I cannot
afford another hit. There is clearly a price to pay for trying
to hide a mistake. So, I am getting myself a hard hat.
August 6, 2009
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