This is the End

December 5, 1998

Well folks, this installment--#122--is the last of the Broadway Jim Jenkins Report.

When I began writing this column back on December 5, 1997, I really didn't know what I was trying to accomplish. What I did know was that I wanted to test myself to see if I could write short stories at a sustained pace for an entire year.

That, I am proud to say, I did.

One of the things that helped me do it was my job as a sales rep for The New York Times Electronic Media Company. For twelve months I sold advertising to art galleries, restaurants, night clubs, even a massage parlor. Along the way, I got to know all the sections of Manhattan that I'd heard about on TV or read about in books over the course of my life. Times Square, Greenwich Village, The Upper West Side, The Upper East Side, Hell's Kitchen, Chelsea, Harlem, SoHo, TriBeCa, Midtown, Wall Street, Murray Hill, The Lower East Side. All of these storied places I learned on foot. What a terrific way to get to know a new place. Had I not been a salesman, I would never have learned so much about The City. In my new job as the Online Sales and Marketing Manager for The Village Voice, I am mostly confined to the building. I walk to the train in the morning, go under the river, walk four blocks from the train stop to my office and then repeat the process in reverse in the evening. If this had been the case a year ago, I never would have seen all of those wonderful neighborhoods. I bet I know more about Manhattan than most sedentary workers who've been here for years.

Thank you New York Times.

The City itself provided me with most of the material for my reports. But the subplot, as my long-time readers know, was my recovery from my divorce. Most of the pain is gone now, although the thought of Andrea ever remarrying is very sad to me. She and I talk or email each other almost every day now. That's very nice. She has forgiven me for being a rotten husband and that is perhaps the greatest gift of love she could give me.

Thank you Andrea.

Writing has been a wonderful way for me to get my feelings out into the open. By putting them on paper, it transformed my feelings from elusive demons into tangible things. Malleable things. Words on paper are real. Just like taking an idea for a bridge and actually building it. And in a sense, making something real made me more real.

Writing--creating in any form--is a wonderful thing; perhaps the most wonderful thing I've ever undertaken. In the beginning, my life defined my writing. Now, writing defines my life.

Thank you IBM Thinkpad. (That's what I write on.)

It makes sense to end this project now. For one, it's been a year. Also, my job has changed and so, any future stories would be from a different perspective than that of a salesman--the perspective that I've had for the entire series. Most importantly, the great swarming mass of pain that accompanied the loss of Andrea is gone. Or, at least it no longer dominates my life.

Writing does.

John Denver began his popular song "Rocky Mountain High" with the words, "He was born in the summer of his 27th year, coming home to a place he'd never been before." I was 25 when I moved up here, but I feel the same thing about Manhattan that the just-quoted dead balladeer felt about Colorado. I've learned a lot more that just how to recover from a divorce or how to write a funny story. The other major change in me has been my development of a sense of perspective. Perspective in the sense of time, in the sense of space, in the sense of my relationship to the world and the world's relationship to me. To me, middle-class suburbia is my emotional and cultural foundation. All decisions I have made have been based on what I learned there. All judgements I have made about others have been made with that as the measuring stick. However, having been in New York for only one year, I have come to realize--and I'm embarrassed it took me 26 years to do so--that we all come from different starting points. We all have different perspectives. Urban, suburban, or rural. Rich, middle-class, or poor. European, African, Asian, Latin American, Indian, Middle Eastern. Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, agnostic, atheist, apathetic. Pro-life. Pro-choice. Republican. Democrat. And those are just the major differences. Each one has a million sub-variations. I realized now--and this is what sets New York apart from anywhere else in the country--that I am a citizen of the World, not just white America. And there are five billion people out there all coming from a different perspective and every perspective is equally valuable. It's mentally very difficult to deal with five billion perspectives and to try to factor them into my own perspective on life. I guess that's why I've been a soft-spoken bigoted, homophobic, racist, elitist, anti-Semite my whole life. It's a lot easier to just dismiss people who are different and move effortlessly up and down the well-worn path of my own dark cloistered mind than it is to crack down the very thick, mirrored, walls of stunting familiarity and stare directly into an incomprehensible radiant sun. But it is the Sun that gives us life. Darkness never begat life. Or growth.

In a couple of weeks, I will begin a new project; this one more structured than this first. I intend to write a traditional novel about an experience I had at West Point involving a female cadet and the humorous, desperate, and bizarre events that led to its most interesting climax. I can promise you that you will be entertained. What you'll think of me and of The United States Military Academy in the end is something that remains to be seen.

I thank you for reading my Broadway Jim reports over the past year. Your feedback has been inspiring. Should I get the series published in book form--which is what I'll start working on immediately--I will send you all free copies.

You'll get the first installment of my new book via email in a couple of weeks. Until then, Happy Holidays!

Broadway Jim Jenkins

P.S. I also want to thank my dog, Jack. He has literally been with me since the day Andrea left. Jack has been a silent witness to everything. And for that, he deserves the biggest rawhide chew toy in the world.

		This is the End
		December 5, 1998 Well folks, this installment--#122--is the last of the Broadway Jim Jenkins Report. When I began writing this column back on December 5, 1997, I really didn't know what I was trying to accomplish. What I did know was that I wanted to test myself to see if I could write short stories at a sustained pace for an entire year. That, I am proud to say, I did. One of the things that helped me do it was my job as a sales rep for The New York Times Electronic Media Company. For twelve months I sold advertising to art galleries, restaurants, night clubs, even a massage parlor. Along the way, I got to know all the sections of Manhattan that I'd heard about on TV or read about in books over the course of my life. Times Square, Greenwich Village, The Upper West Side, The Upper East Side, Hell's Kitchen, Chelsea, Harlem, SoHo, TriBeCa, Midtown, Wall Street, Murray Hill, The Lower East Side. All of these storied places I learned on foot. What a terrific way to get to know a new place. Had I not been a salesman, I would never have learned so much about The City. In my new job as the Online Sales and Marketing Manager for The Village Voice, I am mostly confined to the building. I walk to the train in the morning, go under the river, walk four blocks from the train stop to my office and then repeat the process in reverse in the evening. If this had been the case a year ago, I never would have seen all of those wonderful neighborhoods. I bet I know more about Manhattan than most sedentary workers who've been here for years. Thank you New York Times. The City itself provided me with most of the material for my reports. But the subplot, as my long-time readers know, was my recovery from my divorce. Most of the pain is gone now, although the thought of Andrea ever remarrying is very sad to me. She and I talk or email each other almost every day now. That's very nice. She has forgiven me for being a rotten husband and that is perhaps the greatest gift of love she could give me. Thank you Andrea. Writing has been a wonderful way for me to get my feelings out into the open. By putting them on paper, it transformed my feelings from elusive demons into tangible things. Malleable things. Words on paper are real. Just like taking an idea for a bridge and actually building it. And in a sense, making something real made me more real. Writing--creating in any form--is a wonderful thing; perhaps the most wonderful thing I've ever undertaken. In the beginning, my life defined my writing. Now, writing defines my life. Thank you IBM Thinkpad. (That's what I write on.) It makes sense to end this project now. For one, it's been a year. Also, my job has changed and so, any future stories would be from a different perspective than that of a salesman--the perspective that I've had for the entire series. Most importantly, the great swarming mass of pain that accompanied the loss of Andrea is gone. Or, at least it no longer dominates my life. Writing does. John Denver began his popular song "Rocky Mountain High" with the words, "He was born in the summer of his 27th year, coming home to a place he'd never been before." I was 25 when I moved up here, but I feel the same thing about Manhattan that the just-quoted dead balladeer felt about Colorado. I've learned a lot more that just how to recover from a divorce or how to write a funny story. The other major change in me has been my development of a sense of perspective. Perspective in the sense of time, in the sense of space, in the sense of my relationship to the world and the world's relationship to me. To me, middle-class suburbia is my emotional and cultural foundation. All decisions I have made have been based on what I learned there. All judgements I have made about others have been made with that as the measuring stick. However, having been in New York for only one year, I have come to realize--and I'm embarrassed it took me 26 years to do so--that we all come from different starting points. We all have different perspectives. Urban, suburban, or rural. Rich, middle-class, or poor. European, African, Asian, Latin American, Indian, Middle Eastern. Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, agnostic, atheist, apathetic. Pro-life. Pro-choice. Republican. Democrat. And those are just the major differences. Each one has a million sub-variations. I realized now--and this is what sets New York apart from anywhere else in the country--that I am a citizen of the World, not just white America. And there are five billion people out there all coming from a different perspective and every perspective is equally valuable. It's mentally very difficult to deal with five billion perspectives and to try to factor them into my own perspective on life. I guess that's why I've been a soft-spoken bigoted, homophobic, racist, elitist, anti-Semite my whole life. It's a lot easier to just dismiss people who are different and move effortlessly up and down the well-worn path of my own dark cloistered mind than it is to crack down the very thick, mirrored, walls of stunting familiarity and stare directly into an incomprehensible radiant sun. But it is the Sun that gives us life. Darkness never begat life. Or growth. In a couple of weeks, I will begin a new project; this one more structured than this first. I intend to write a traditional novel about an experience I had at West Point involving a female cadet and the humorous, desperate, and bizarre events that led to its most interesting climax. I can promise you that you will be entertained. What you'll think of me and of The United States Military Academy in the end is something that remains to be seen. I thank you for reading my Broadway Jim reports over the past year. Your feedback has been inspiring. Should I get the series published in book form--which is what I'll start working on immediately--I will send you all free copies. You'll get the first installment of my new book via email in a couple of weeks. Until then, Happy Holidays! Broadway Jim Jenkins P.S. I also want to thank my dog, Jack. He has literally been with me since the day Andrea left. Jack has been a silent witness to everything. And for that, he deserves the biggest rawhide chew toy in the world.