The Rainbow Room — by Elazar Aslan

By Elazar Aslan

I don’t know if it was just Murphy’s Law haunting me that day or the anxiety of a first date with a woman who I thought might be “the one.” That particular day, though, was a series of ongoing mishaps. Not just the kind of day where things aren’t going your way, but the kind of day where people seem to go out of their way to cause you pain.

It was bad enough to get my car towed. It was even worse to be standing next to it when they hitched it. But the worst part was when they towed it with my coat jacket and wallet and all my IDs. As if to put the exclamation mark on my day thus far, they would not let me near my car until I could show them an ID. The day continued that way, culminating with a cab driving across four lanes of traffic just to hit the puddle of water where I was standing and stain my suit pants before I walked in to meet my date—at the Rainbow Room.

In retrospect, it was probably too much to have my first date at the Rainbow Room—this famously romantic restaurant atop a building in the majestic Rockefeller Center. In those days, I was prone to jumping the gun any time a beautiful woman was involved. I must have felt that I needed the skyscraper view overlooking Manhattan to make me look better, but that’s another story for another time.

In any case, I took the 70+ floor elevator ride to the restaurant. The ride was exactly what I needed to center myself. It was a rough day, but I made it. Stained pants or not, I looked okay and was on time. The day was going to turn around. I got off the elevator and approached the host, gave my name and asked for the table for two. He checked the book, couldn’t find the name. My anxiety was bordering on panic again. Not another mishap, I thought. “I made the reservation last week,” I said, trying to preempt his rejection.

“Ah, here it is. Table for two.”

I found my breath again. This will turn around today—despite everything, I reassured myself.

“Were you expecting someone?” he then asked.

“Yes, but I don’t see her yet,” I said with assurance.

“I believe this message is for you,” he said, and then handed me slip of paper with a phone message.

Sorry, will not be able to make it tonight. Will call you tomorrow.

This was before cell phones or I would have called her that second— but then again, she probably would have called me directly if I had a cell phone.

I shuffled away from the host to make room for all those other people who were getting ready to cap off a great day with a most wonderful sunset-filled dinner. Even more reason to feel sorry for myself. So there I was in front of this wall of windows overlooking the New York City skyline at sunset, seeing nothing but misery. Why was everyone against me today? Her standing me up was the final insult. I checked and double-checked—not a single person was nice to me that day—not one. My self-pity party kicked into full swing.

I don’t know how long I lingered like that but at some point I noticed an older gentleman standing next to me. I don’t know what he did, but he had that look—long white hair covering the sides and back of his head—short, gentle, but firm and wise. I guessed he was either a physics professor or a symphony conductor (it still amazed me how much we project from very little information).

We started talking, polite social conversation at first—some deeper philosophical issues soon after. I liked this man. He was kind. He was funny. He was smart. He made me smile.

Soon I noticed that I was feeling much better. That this one gentle man was able to make up for all the mean and nasty people I encountered that day.

As my mood shifted, I noticed that the sun had set and the twinkle of the city lights was coming into full force.

“That’s quite beautiful,” I said, as if the skyline were my doing.

“Yes it is,” he said with hesitation, “but do you want to know what is really beautiful?”

“What?” I said more as a challenge to him than out of curiosity.

“I want you to count how many lights you see on for every light out.”

“You want me to count all the lights?” I asked incredulously.

“No, no. Just count how many are out for how many on.”

I did. I picked a floor in a building in front of me and counted the lights on and the lights out. I picked another floor in that building and another one. To be sure, I turned and selected another building and a few floors in that one. I even faced the Chrysler Building and put its lights to the test.

“My God,” I said, almost in shock, “there’s an average. There are twelve lights out for every one on.”

He smiled as if his transmission was complete. “Yes,” he said. “That’s what’s so beautiful. That you can have one light on for so many lights out, and still have a magnificent skyline.”

He turned fully towards me. We shook hands. He left.

* * *

Most people are kindly and good. However, most people are kind and good within the context of fear and limitations. And within those views of better me than them, not enough for all, can’t trust others, and mine, me and I—their ability to keep the light on becomes limited. But never forget the power of one light—yours.

So keep fighting the good fight and keep your light on, and when you stand back, what you will see will be a beautiful skyline.