Kim Novak, birthdays and diplomas

I was back in the city this past weekend to scan an old letter written by Kim Novak to Candy Darling. Actually the letter was written before she was Candy, and is addressed to Jimmy Slattery.

It is, as close as I can tell, one of the main examples of why Jimmy decided to become Candy. For a little boy growing up in Long Island in the 1950s, Kim Novak was the ultimate glamorous movie star, and Jimmy wanted nothing more than to follow in her footsteps.

The letter thanks Jimmy personally for his support and is signed “Kim” in large purple letters, a heart above the “i”.

I carefully place it in the scanner and wait as the inner workings hum forward and back, the image finally appearing on my screen.

I think about what the letter must have meant to Candy. It is upwards of 50 years old, but you would never be able to tell. It is in mint condition and could to have been written yesterday. I wonder whether I should be wearing white cotton gloves. For now, because of what Candy became, this piece of paper is history.

I make my way through the rest of the scanning, coming to photos of Candy at her 29th and final birthday party. I’m working in the NYU computer lab and quietly wonder when my expired ID card will no longer get me into the building. I used to recognize the faces of many of the students. But now I find myself at a computer in the corner, in a sea of new freshmen.

My birthday has always coincided with the start of the new school year. This year is the second time that a school year has started without me. It’s the second time that I’ve watched the influx of NYU students in the village. But, for me there are no more classes, no more books, no more scheduled beginning. Just time.

I was going to write this column about turning 24. I was going to talk about how birthdays have changed over the years. How they are becoming anticlimactic, how there is no more anticipation, and little excitement. And how, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. And then I read my column written a few days after my birthday last year. At 23, I had been feeling the same way. And had written a story about a Robin Hood themed birthday party held when I was 10. I thought about updating that old column; changing a few details, all of the 23s to 24s and wondered if anyone would catch on. I decide against it, finish the scanning, and hop the subway home.

I realized yesterday that my roommate Rob is still a student. It is a wild realization for me. I’m not entirely sure why. I suppose it is the acknowledgment that I really don’t know many people who are still in school. All of my friends have since graduated. Rather, having completed their classes, many of them have unfinished senior thesis films hanging over their heads. The fact that even they are working without a diploma makes me wonder about the value of the piece of paper in my room.

I want someone to ask me if I graduated, to challenge me, to force me to run up the stairs of my house and grab my diploma and come back waving it screaming, “See! I told you I graduated!”

Back in Brooklyn, I pack a new bag of clothes to take upstate, carefully placing Candy’s letter in my laptop case. I survey my room, say goodbye to Molly, Ryan’s cat, and remember to lock the deadbolt as I pull the door to the house closed, my diploma left, mint condition, in my top left dresser drawer. It’s strange how I’m not living there right now.

My computer and whole life is set up in the small room off the kitchen in the back of the house at 69 Main Street. Transcripts litter the floor with the exception of a small path from my chair to the door; stories of a person long dead.

The journey is a long one; I spend four hours alone in the car, singing at the top of my longs, before pulling into the driveway of the house. I drop my bags in the guest bedroom and place the letter back in its place on a shelf above my computer.