Recovering from surgery, especially in Sri Lanka, can be problematic. Unable to access legitimate hospitals, one is forced to seek the vast network of underground clinics. Laying here on my metal cot in my cinderblock chamber I can hear the wails of the amputees, especially those that can’t afford opioids. 

We are a disparate bunch, outcasts, pocketpickers, pimps, podcasters, drunks, profligates, women of the night, men of the day, you name it, we are here, trying to recover from a traumatic event. Looking at my mangled foot I wonder, will I ever dance again?

We took the train to Saratoga Springs that first summer, while a fleet of Lamborghini Espadas carried my father’s beloved Champagne and Armagnac and my mother’s Creme de Menthe, pearls and Voodoo masks. 

I was 15, the perfect age to have no idea what was going on around me. My body was betraying me with growth, acne and hormones and the world, so simple a few years ago, now felt as complicated as a New Yorker crossword puzzle [challenging edition]. 

I was already developing a taste for the bubbles—and before you call child services— remember this was a long, long time ago. Drinking was seen as a rite of passage and my Italian and French heritage almost demanded that I start early.

What this unfolding of my next self did not prepare me for were the ballerinas.

Saratoga Springs hosted the New York City Ballet in the summer and besides the main company, they also ran an extremely popular school. I was rambling through the massive state park one humid afternoon when suddenly I came face to face with several dozen young men and women practicing their plies and arabesques. 

I timed out my upcoming days to arrive at the school, thermos of cold champers in tow, to watch the last fifteen minutes of practice, and the release; when the young dancers would return to their mortal forms. I was conscious of avoiding stalking, but I was drawn to their regal postures, their fit bodies and their absolute tunnel vision. They were collectively single minded and I was far outside their field of vision. That’s when I had my life changing brainstorm. I begged for a Super 8 camera from my parents, bought 24 rolls of film and knocked on the school door announcing myself as a young documentary filmmaker. 

Long and lithe, supple but with the muscles of warriors, elegant yet fierce. God, I loved them all so very much.

I met Minnow on day three. She wasn’t the best student, but she more than made up for it by demanding some champagne and lighting up a cigarette during a break. Our love affair was short but intense, and she ended up splitting with me during a transPacific flight to Indonesia. I still don’t know how she did it. One minute we were sitting next to each other exploring JAL’s sake collection, the next minute, the Xanax kicked in and when I woke up the plane was deboarding and she was gone. I waited at baggage claim, but just watched her bag go around and around until I finally gave up and took a cab to an underground opium den I heard about, and eight months later…

I’m recovering from the bone replacement and skin grafts which I had to pay for by letting them take a kidney. Given how much I have imbibed up until now, the joke is definitely on them. The accommodations are poor and cellphone service is non-existent. I am unsure she would call anyway, but I would give up, not another kidney because that would be problematic; but maybe a finger just to see her dance again.