I’m still in the process of recovering from such a crazy week, traveling back and forth between Maryland and New York so many times. Much of the week is a blur. Here’s a rundown.
MONDAY
I’m home for only a day, before heading back to New York. There’s a huge list of things I need to do before my younger son’s confirmation on Saturday. My wife has been working furiously while I’ve been having heaps of fun in the city, so I need to make up some ground. I spend the morning hauling ten bags of mulch out to the garden and replacing two boards of our deck, staining included, when I get a call from Kim Sharp of Abingdon, whom I’d just left yesterday. He tells me that a critic has requested a clean copy of the updated script right away. He doesn’t need to tell me what that means. I know: the New York Times is coming to see the show. I don’t have a clean copy of the script. I need to type it. So, with many apologies, I again leave poor Betsy to prepare for Saturday’s massive party alone, while I tend to theater business.
TUESDAY
I take Amtrak up to New York for a special benefit performance of the play. Although I’d only left the city Sunday, it feels different. I can’t tell if it’s because the romance of the experience is abating or if my thoughts are back home, worrying about the confirmation. Either way, I’m tired. I spend the afternoon watching the Yankees in a pub on 8th Avenue, before walking to the theater.
The audience consists of Abingdon’s donors and board members, each of whom paid one hundred and fifty dollars to see the show and afterwards have dinner with the cast. Artistic Director Jan Buttram introduces me to everyone, like I’m the reason they’re there, which is a very odd feeling for me. I prefer to blend into the woodwork, so no one feels obligated to be nice. I’m immediately put in mind of the first scene of my play, wherein Shaw is meant to charm a potential donor.
I’m pleased to see the actors bringing fresh energy to the show. The audience laughs hard throughout the first scene, including at Webb’s opening speech which is dense and academic. But around scene two, silence descends. Warm smiles turn into disinterested staring. They perk up at the end of the scene, but collapse into silence again until the sex discussion at the end of Act One. I hadn’t noticed the actors doing anything different. The direction is still solid. Is it the script? All are complimentary during the intermission, but I’m worried. Act Two is perfect, with huge laughs; so I keep my concerns private.
The dinner is designed so that every donor has someone from the creative team at their table. I’m seated at the center table between two gorgeous actresses who are affiliated with Abingdon, but not in my show. One is in her twenties, the other in her seventies. I’ve heard the young woman’s name before, but we can’t discover a mutual acquaintance. The other member of our table is a donor being groomed for board membership. The two actresses and I are meant to be the “star power” that convinces him to maintain his relationship with the theater. The head of the Abingdon board was supposed to be at our table too, but had to cancel because he’s a C.P.A. and it’s two days before tax deadline.
The actors and Jackob, the director, work the room, going from table to table introducing themselves and making sure everyone has a good time. I marvel at Jackob’s ability to charm. I attempt something similar, but wind up telling the same story over and over again, boring myself and everyone within earshot. Back at my table, there’s no one around me whose voice is familiar. It’s a loud restaurant, and I am having a great deal of trouble hearing what anyone says. All I can make out is the rhythm of the speech patterns. The two actresses speak quickly, almost conspiratorially, with much laughter and agreement. Warren, the actor playing Shaw, visits our table, and speaks slowly, with authority and significant pauses which command everyone’s attention.
As the donors leave, Jackob and the cast coalesce around the table of Victoria, who plays Beatrice; and then, for me, the fun begins. Marc, who plays Webb, has been urging the people at his table to move the show to a commercial house for a million dollars. No offers are made. The waiters blink the lights to kick us out, so we stagger across the street for a drink. Jan tells me that she wouldn’t mind working with me again. Claire, who plays Charlotte, is “merry,” as she calls it, shouting hilarious, wacky, and belligerent non sequiturs at everyone. I’m still unable to understand much of what is said, but Claire tells me quite seriously that she’d prefer I was more outspoken and direct. I respond in my usual formal and emotionally distant way, perhaps with an attempt and wit. Jan pays for the round, and I walk with Mickey, the stage manager, to Port Authority before heading off to my hotel around 1:30.
WEDNESDAY
I am horribly depressed after a conversation with Betsy, who is offended by something I wrote. I feel I have done something wrong without meaning to do so. I am apologetic and explanatory, but the guilt at having upset her ruins the morning. The city goes from being the greatest place in the firmament, to being the most heartless and lonely. I head down to Horace Greeley Square Park, buy the Times, and read it cover to cover. This is the day I had originally planned to attend the Yankees game, but the cheapest available seats go for three hundred dollars, so I opt for another pub. The Yankees lose, echoing my mood.
There is a talkback with me and the rest of the cast after the show tonight. No friends are in attendance. The audience consists almost entirely of a group sale to the Rotary Club, who are fairly conservative and not at all intellectual. Just the perfect audience for a play about polysyllabic socialists. The show is godawful, completely lacking in energy. All of the problems I saw the previous evening are magnified tenfold. A quarter of the house stays for the talkback.
I love talkbacks, feeling comfortable and in my element. I get a number of laughs from saying the typical idiotic things I’m prone to mutter. The volunteer usher hopes that the cast will be kept intact when (not if) the production moves to a commercial house. Afterwards, I voice my concerns about the show to Jackob. I can’t put my finger on what is wrong, but something isn’t working.
I hop on Amtrak at ten p.m., headed to Baltimore. I arrive home after two.
THURSDAY
I awake at seven, bleary and catatonic. I have a job interview in Baltimore to be the Education Director of Everyman Theatre. It’s between me and one other person, now. I arrive half an hour late and unshaven. It’s the kind of job I’ve coveted for many years, and I paint many compelling pictures of how I see their department expanding.
But there are drawbacks. Though the money they’re offering is about twice what I currently make, the job requires four times the work. Betsy would need to take over my child-chauffering duties, which she found almost impossible last week. Naturally, I’d need to give up all of my freelance teaching and professional development work. Plus, I would need to give up playwriting entirely. There wouldn’t be time for me to write anything new, and they wouldn’t let me travel to rehearse anything old.
This is less of a deal-breaker than many people might think. I’ve been frustrated for many years now about both the quality of my recent work and the nature of the theater business. When I completed the first draft of Engaging Shaw ten years ago, I told myself I’d quit if the show never made it into New York. Now that it is in New York, does this mean that I’m required to continue this dreadfully unfulfilling path in perpetuity? My sons are nearing college age. Maybe, for my kids, I can take a hiatus for eight years, like I did when they were born. Would I have the energy to resurrect my playwriting career at the age of 53? Would I want to?
Though everyone at Abingdon indicates that they’d like to work with me again (a sentiment I return), I’m hemorrhaging money with all of the travel. Plus, I don’t think I have a script of Shaw’s quality which would fit their tiny space. I gave them Young Turg and Irish Authors Held Hostage but so far they’ve responded to neither.
If a commercial producer steps forward to move Shaw within the next few days, or if Everyman doesn’t offer me the job, then the decision is made for me. But it is more likely that I am the one who will need to start examining the course of my future.
In the evening, an e-mail from Jackob tells me that eight critics, including the Times, are watching tonight’s show. I’m not nervous, since it’s out of my hands and I know we’ve put together something that–when it works–works beautifully. Mickey’s stage manager report tells us the audience was full and very responsive.
FRIDAY
Betsy and I scramble to cook and clean for the arrival of thirty family members from four different states in anticipation of James’ confirmation. My wife is a wonderfully efficient planner, and has turned me into a reasonable facsimile of one when I feel like it. We rearrange furniture to make room for the rented tables and chairs. My job is to do grocery and airport runs. As I drive to BWI to pick up my sister, her daughter, and my cousin, I hear a news report about the murder of Brian Betts, who was the Arts Integration Coordinator at my older son’s middle school two years ago. He was one of the most dynamic and dedicated administrators I’ve ever met. He was the reason we chose that school, and he was instrumental in getting Evan into the percussion section of the band. It is a tremendous loss for middle school students in DC.
Compartmentalizing my shock and sorrow, I return home with family in tow and have a great deal of fun playing pool in the new basement with the boys and my brother-in-law. My cousin gives me a DVD of her documentary about skid row artists in L.A., which I’ve been dying to see. Before bed, I check online for Mickey’s stage manager report. For the first time, we had empty seats. He says it was quiet and that we “lost” the audience during Act Two, scene one. All bad signs. Because this is the day I’d arranged for a commercial producer to attend. There are no phone calls or offers made. I think of Shaw’s line in the play: “Like Ibsen, I will put my plays into print and trouble the theater no further with them.”
SATURDAY
The confirmation. My Dad and his wife arrive at the house early. I haven’t seen them in two years, and my father has indicated that this will be his last trip east. James had his braces removed a few days ago and looks like a million dollars. During the ceremony, my father-in-law falls ill, nearly passing out. He refuses to go to the hospital, hoping it will pass. It doesn’t, but he gets no worse, which I suppose is a plus.
The party after the ceremony seems to go well. It’s loud; but I know everyone’s voice, so I can hear them. I float from group to group, assisting with drinks, cooking, and cleaning up. The bar and basement are a huge hit. My Dad infuriates everyone by insisting we play pool by the official tournament rules that his buddies use in California. I remind him that we’re only playing friendly games, but he is adamant. The food came out very well, but we made too much. There are no seats for Betsy and me among the main group, so we sit in the foyer and share a lovely private moment. Unfortunately, the private moment turns out to be seen by the public, and we are teased by all.
Because of her father’s illness, Betsy has decided not to come with me to the press opening of Engaging Shaw. I understand. Mickey’s report again indicates a few empty seats and a quiet house.
SUNDAY
Opening Night. I have an early breakfast in Maryland with the extended Morogiello family, after which my Dad puts his credit card on the table and leaves without signing the bill or retrieving the card. Betsy will sign for it and mail the card to him later. I drive my sister and her daughter back to the airport, and my cousin and I head up to New York. My cousin, Judy, has been particularly worried about jet lag, so I provide her with a pillow if she wishes to sleep during the drive. Instead, we spend the entire drive talking and reminiscing.
We reach the city by three, staying at the Hotel Wellington just south of Carnegie Hall. I furiously write notes to the cast, thanking and congratulating them. At four, I meet Judy in the lobby. She insists upon springing for a cab. At the theater, my friend JoAnn arrives with a large contingent of Stony Brook friends, some of whom I’ve not seen in a quarter century. I return Betsy’s ticket to the box office to be resold, but Jan decides to use it and I’m happy to sit beside her the whole night.
It turns out that not a single member of the press will be at Press Night. They all came last Thursday. Apparently, the press finds Press Night too manufactured, since we’ve packed the audience with friends. They prefer to go to a late preview–which we also manufacture by packing the audience with friends. Essentially, it means that the critics saw the show before Jackob could give the actors the final notes I passed along to him on Wednesday. And it’s a shame, because the cast gives the best performance I’ve seen. Everything is working and the cast is fresh and energized. Beatrice even gets a laugh when she crosses to Webb during the splinter sequence! At the intermission, a stranger thanks me for writing the play. I try to give a witty response, but it comes off callous and glib. I vow to be earnest for the rest of the evening.
Afterwards, I shake the hand of just about the entire audience. I head to the post-show reception with Judy and a friend of hers who lives in New York. For some reason, despite the volume, I am blessed with the ability to hear everyone for this one night. It’s one of those parties where you talk to everyone, yet you talk to no one. No sooner do I start a conversation with one person, than someone takes my arm and my attention elsewhere. Warren has become this quasi-mystical creature to me, as if he knows everyone I’ve ever known, lived the career I’ve always wanted, and now plans to open the portal that has blocked my career for the past twenty years or so. Halfway through the party, he takes me aside and introduces me to Jim Flynn, an agent I’d been pursuing for about seventeen years. I make him laugh once or twice, but he does not proffer his services. I spend a lot of time talking to Piper, the Development Associate, who also has a hearing problem.
When the party breaks up I realize I’ve not eaten anything, so I head to a deli across from the hotel. Looking back on the evening, my only regret is that Betsy wasn’t able to share it with me. Too jazzed to sleep, I strike up a conversation with two women from Holland, who are stuck in New York because of the volcano. They are soon replaced by a couple from Dayton, who talk baseball. The reviews will start coming out in the morning. But I don’t care what they say. They can neither give me more than I received this evening, nor take away a smidgen of the joy that will carry me home. Like the character of Charlotte, I got what I wanted the minute I surrendered.
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