Breathless in January, Part Two...

Later that month I sang at Forestview Nursing Home. It's located in a section of Forest Hills where parking is pretty much not an option. I dropped off my stuff at the front door and went looking for a spot. I think I must have parked in the Bronx. By the time I walked back to the nursing home, it might have been a good idea for me to have checked in to the nursing home. I had to sit down to catch my breath. I went upstairs and did the show, but I knew I was pretty lousy: it's kinda hard to sing without breathing.
A few days later, on a Friday, it was the Sephardic Home. At this point I knew the smart thing to do would have been to just call them, explain that I wasn't well, and cancel. I didn't do that, however, because it was my first gig there and I didn't want them to get the impression that I was the kind of guy who just cancels for no apparent reason. So I showed up. With my mom in tow, no less. She's 90 and thinks I'm the bee's knees. But she's a little deaf and also my mother so her vote doesn't really count. So I huffed and puffed and got my amp (which weighs as much as a small horse) and the rest of my gear into the place. It was quite cold out, and anyone with breathing issues knows that cold weather just exacerbates the problem. Somehow I got through the gig, but I was a wreck. I couldn't hold notes. I couldn't really make chit-chat with the crowd. I've found that talking to seniors and making them feel like people again is half the battle. I usually walk around the room and ask people their names. I think the interaction helps them accept you and makes them more receptive of you when you're performing. I was so spent physically that I couldn't bring myself to "work the room."

When it was finally over, I got a very lukewarm, perfunctory "thank you" from the recreational therapy department director, who had never met me before and had hired me sight-unseen at the insistance of the administrator (a very nice man named Michael New) who had never seen me perform. Why he insisted, I'll never know. On the way out, I couldn't take the elevator with my equipment because there were only two of them and they were loaded with people and canes and wheelchairs and aides, all clamoring to get back to their rooms after listening to me, no doubt. So I ended up walking up a flight of stairs with my stuff. Somehow I made it to my car and sat there behind the wheel for a good five minutes, trying to catch my breath while my mother sat next to me telling me how great I was.