Part Five - Me and Mr. Jones

  We have a thing..... going on. 

In the spring of 2019, I was hyper-focused on 3 days of Peace, Love & Music - the upcoming golden anniversary of Woodstock. As the date grew closer, plans for the event shifted, including the location and musicians that would perform. Eventually, everything was canceled. This worked out perfectly for me since I 'accidentally' bought a block of tickets, at an inflated price, from a third-party scalper, and cancelation of the event was my only shot at redemption. 

This left Bethel Woods Center for the Arts, the grounds of the original Woodstock when the land was owned by farmer Max Yasgur, the only ticket in town to host this once-in-a-lifetime, 50-year celebration. 

The three-day commemoration highlighted performances by Woodstock '69 artists including a hello from Melanie, and music by Arlo Guthrie, Edgar Winter, Santana, and John Fogerty. Other performers including, Ringo Starr, The Doobie Brothers, Blood Sweat and Tears, Grace Potter, and The Tedeschi Trucks Band played songs that were originally performed at Woodstock.

I arrived early Saturday, dressed to frolic with fellow Woodstock worshipers, in a faded t-shirt, tattered jeans, and a teal blue wig adorned with a crown of feathers, flowers, and horns.

When the evening grew closer and the rain set in, I found shelter in one of the craft tents. Here, a woman of similar age approached me and asked if I was single. Not knowing where this was going but inebriated to the point of being intrigued, I let her know my heart was wide open. 

"Don't move," she said. "I want you to meet my friend. He's going to love you," she assured me, "And," she added, "He's a great catch." 

Two sips of my drink later, she returned with a tall, trim, clean-cut, prominent-looking man that she clearly lionized. Dressed in pressed jeans and a crisp, new tie-dye shirt, he looked out of character and stiff.

He stood like a bull before me - his eyes focused, his breath strong and steady. Under a halo of fluorescent lighting meant to illuminate art, he leaned in and gently kissed me.

"Come with me," he said, taking me by the hand and leading me toward the main stage inside the amphitheater.

Noone challenged us as we weaved our way past checkpoints, ushers, and security, to fourth-row center seats. "You can sit on my lap," he prompted, then cradled me in his arms.

I stayed in his arms while Carlos Santana introduced his wife on drums - Cindy Blackman Santana. I stayed in his arms as they played Black Magic Woman. Like hippies from the 60's, we entangled ourselves in laughter and kisses while Carlo's guitar strings sang Europa.

We stayed until the start of the encore - until this big cat leaned in and said, "I have to go, Sweetheart. Call me sometime," then handed me his card. 

A game of cat and mouse pursued - he, too preoccupied with his life to hunt, and me, patiently waiting to pounce.

It would be several months before we met again, this time at a history New York City mid-town landmark - a former piano bar dating back to the 1930s, appropriately named the Monkey Bar. Rumor has it, the mirrored paneling mimicked the scandalous behavior of its prohibition patrons ("Monkey see, Monkey do"). In the 1950's the mirrors were replaced with spectacular hand-painted monkey murals by caricaturist Charlie Wala. This was also where, in my 40s, a man caught my heart and I knocked it out of his hands when I discovered, months later, that he was married (aka, Mr. Wonderful).

The plan was simple, drinks then dinner. He would stay at the adjoining hotel, Elysee, and I, like Cinderella, had a midnight car service scheduled. 

He paced outside the restaurant, engulfed in a plume of smoke as he sucked on a Marlboro red. I was 35 minutes late.

I caught his look of confusion when I stepped out of the town car - my hair now chestnut brown and short, my eyes shielded in tortuous shell glasses, my body conservatively dressed in a loose-fitting, tiger print cashmere sweater, cropped wide-legged black merino wool pants, and ankle-high black crocodile, stiletto-heal boots.

He greeted me pensively, tossed his lit cigarette on the ground, and ushered me inside. With a warmth I expected for me, he smiled at the maitre d', greeted him by name then pressed a one-hundred-dollar bill into his palm. "Booth in the back, Francisco," he said with a tight-lipped smile.

He drank bourbon straight through dinner. Then had a double for dessert.

When it was time for the check he told Francisco he wanted two, crisp menus as souvenirs. The flip side of the menu illustrated two, finely dressed monkeys gliding down 54th Street - tails raised high and proud. 

As the waiter handed him the menus, he leaned in and whispered, "Don't leave. You have your own room." When I hesitated he added, "I made reservations at Tavern on the Green for breakfast."

We never made it to breakfast. A tour of my room included a make-out session that ended abruptly when he offered too much information. 

"Last time I was with a woman..." he boasted.

Oh please stop, I thought, my disapproval punctuated by my furrowed brows. 

"I had a heart attack while she was giving me a blow job," he added. 

"Oh hell NO! Please stop," I insisted. This time out loud. 

"If she didn't give me mouth to mouth, I'd be dead," He elaborated. 

"Way too much information," I said. This time, even louder. 

"Guess I got my money's worth," he chuckled - suggesting this was a paid service.

"You're obviously wealthy enough but not healthy enough for sexual activity," I snapped. 

I spent the night alone in a crisp, king-sized bed. 

We shared complimentary coffee in the lobby the next morning. He left in his oversized red pickup truck before my driver arrived. Neither of us waved goodbye.

For the next four years, we would exchange random, meaningless, late-night texts. Without fail, the morning after, I would review our thread and delete it.

I was seated solo at the Monteleone's revolving carousel bar, located in the lobby of the same haunted hotel where I left Charlie just days before - enjoying one final drink in New Orleans before heading to the reality of home, when my phone buzzed.

"How you doing, Sweetheart?" he texted.

I briefly considered ignoring him but a mid-day text from Mr. Jones was out of character.

"I'm in New Orleans," I answered. 

"Good for you," he texted, then added, "I've been thinking about you."

I don't remember if I told him over a text or a call, but he attached himself to me the moment I released the words, "I have cancer, again."

Unlike Airport Man, Mr. Jones wanted to know everything about my illness. Unlike Good Time Charlie, distance did not deter him. And to my surprise, I let him in. 

At his urging, I sent him copies of my medical documents, names of doctors, and even my daughter's contact information. "If I can't get ahold of you I need to know you're alright," he insisted.

When I told him I was headed to Baltimore in two days for a PET scan at Johns Hopkins, he offered to take me. When I told him I was driving down with my daughter and son-in-law, he offered to meet me there and take us to dinner. When I checked into the hotel there was a large bouquet of flowers waiting for me at the front desk. The card read, "Thinking of you. Love always, Mr. Jones." When I texted him a picture of the flowers he was annoyed by the arrangement and sent a second. This time the card read, "With all my love. I hope you have a wonderful day today. Thinking of you always. Love, Jimmy Jones."

Jimmy Jones... it was a moment that felt as 'big' as when Big's name was revealed on Sex and the City. 

He must have told me before, right? I thought. I wouldn't have agreed to meet a man for dinner not knowing his first name? I wouldn't have stayed semi-connected to someone for four years not knowing his first name?

But I swear, if he told me before, I completely forgot.

To be continued...