A Question of Sanity
I loved reading biographies, not so much for the educational content, but to track the precise moment when an otherwise obscure figure pivoted to prominence. For example, I was fascinated by the career trajectory of Harry S. Truman, a failed businessman who, in his late thirties, drove his haberdashery into bankruptcy and then, in his forties, was reduced to selling automobile club memberships. Not long thereafter, he became one of the most remarkable figures of the twentieth century. How did this happen? The currents of circumstance, I suppose, but I also believed, with no supporting evidence, that he took one seemingly trivial yet consequential step that redirected his focus, upset his equilibrium, and freed him to consider grander possibilities.
Fortified by these thoughts, I walked into Moto Mania on Crosby Street in Soho and bought a Vespa. I had some experience with scooters, mainly limited to my experience in Bermuda as a fourteen-yearold on vacation with my parents. The speed limit on the island at that time was twenty miles per hour, which was fortunate, because the flimsy two-wheelers in Hamilton had seemed fastened together by paper clips. Adding to my disorientation was the requirement to ride on the left side of the road. But even so, the experience then had been transforming. I felt like nothing I had accomplished in my life since then, if anything could be reasonably categorized as an accomplishment, compared to the liberating detachment I had experienced as I clunkered along the Bermuda coast.
I entered Moto Mania on a lark, daring myself to string together a consecutive series of goofy steps, with the allowance to withdraw at any point along the way. The first step was so simple. Walking into the showroom. But I had not prepared myself for the hypnotic impact of the candy-colored Vespas and the high-tech architecture of the flip-top, Bluetooth-enabled helmets. Also, I was surrounded by laid-back enablers, salespeople who recognized a sucker when they saw one and who knew just how to recede and then gently readvance to guide the lost soul to the consummation of a purchase.
They let me take out a used 150-cubic-centimeter model for a test drive. Technically, I needed a permit, with a dedicated licensed motorcyclist within a quarter mile of me at all times. But when was the last time this rule was enforced? I flew up Crosby Street and darted between cars and potholes. Then, I sped down Broadway and carved a tight right turn onto Canal Street. I was good, and I was abetted by this nimble machine that intuited my every directional intention.
I purchased a bright green 250 cc Gran Turismo Vespa and two openface helmets. Then, I rode up to Twenty-First Street between Broadway and Park Avenue and waited. At 5:00 p.m., Erica walked out of her office building and headed east. I rode beside her and marveled at her ability to navigate the crowded sidewalk as she sent texts and emails. I beeped the horn and scared the shit out of myself. And Erica.
“That is so unnecessary,” she yelled and continued walking. I followed her conspicuously. She was furious, but she made a determined effort to ignore me.
“Hop on,” I yelled through the muffled barrier of the helmet’s chin guard.
“Oh, would you please just knock it off!” she snarled.
“Erica,” I yelled, “hop on!”
She stopped, turned left, and took two quick steps toward me on the street, nearly colliding with a bicyclist who had staked out a slalom course on the sidewalk. “Will,” she said, vacantly at first. “Will,” she said again, this time with gathering force. I admired her in that moment. There was no question mark in the vicinity, not yet, just the brute force of a keen intellect aligning data to a new reality.
“Are you insane?” she asked. And now, the liberation was complete. A woman who believed in remote healing, who believed that traffic patterns were susceptible to energetic manipulations, was questioning my sanity.
“You lack standing to ask that question,” I said. “Hop on.”
And I must give credit where credit is due, because without further hesitation, she hopped on, donned the helmet, and off we went on a two-hour journey of streets I knew so well but had never really seen or experienced before that day. We traveled north on the FDR Drive and confronted the snarling ramps of the George Washington Bridge, splayed before us like an inviting but tensed hand, poised to convulse if navigated poorly. Just before making the irreversible choice to New Jersey, we scooted hard to the right, finding the lone exit that kept us in Manhattan. Heading south on the West Side Highway, we reached Fort Tyron, a park straddling the Hudson Heights and Inwood neighborhoods of northern Manhattan, perched on a high ridge with a commanding view of the Hudson River and the steep cliffs of the Pacific Palisades. We parked at the Cloisters and lounged on the sloping lawns fronting what appeared to be a castle from the Middle Ages but was in fact a recreation funded by John D. Rockefeller Jr.
We returned to Erica’s apartment, exhausted, our faces dried and windswept. “There is no way we just did that,” Erica said. I pushed her onto the bed, straddled her, and pinned her hands over her head. “It’s just possible that I’m not in the mood,” she said.
“That is of limited interest to me,” I replied. She squirmed without conviction as I disrobed her. “I need your help,” I said.
“I’ll do what I can.” She was naked, and I began removing my clothes.
“I will be a great and powerful healer, and I will also need to engage in questionable acts of sexual deviancy, and you will help me, for this is your destiny.”
“Did you park your scooter in a secure location?” she asked. She closed her eyes and arced her body toward mine. “Or maybe you’re doing that even as we speak.”
“Speak not, fair lady, for the fiery-footed steeds gallop apace, and thou wilt lie upon the wings of night.”
“Shakespeare . . . ” she whispered, and indeed, we paid no worship to the garish sun.
Later, I awoke on my side and found Erica staring at me. “It’s time,” she said.
“I’m too tired.”
“For another ride.”
“I’m too tired.”
“It’s early,” she said. “The roads will be empty.” I raised my eyebrows. It was still dark outside. “You’re a good rider,” she said.
“I’m not sure what we’re talking about,” I replied.
“You’re a good rider.” And we drifted away again.
Time slipped by, and the sun swamped the apartment. I was alone in the bed, and I could hear the clatter of dishes. “Erica,” I said.
“Now I’m too tired,” she replied, as she appeared in the doorway. “It’s eleven forty-five in the morning. Don’t you need to be at work?”
“I’m on a leave of absence, paid, for six months,” I said. She walked toward me slowly without releasing her gaze on me. She climbed on the bed and sat cross-legged in front of me. “And I need your help, because I am going to provide healing services, and you’ll need to be a part of this.”
Erica opened her eyes wide. “I know I can help,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for this.”