Last Saturday in Chicago

I always bring a book, but Saturday I didn’t bring a book. I would rush from one show to another, I knew. My last performances in Chicago. The two theatres I fell in love with decade+ ago. Dal asked me to arrive early to i_. So we could talk. Before I go. I arrived five minutes late after shoveling kale and sesame oil into a biodegradable box across the street. The bar was quiet. The show was pushed two hours earlier for a festival, light house, some staples of the ensemble missing.

I didn’t do a big thing. I texted four people actually. I am not afraid of leaving people as much as my study carrel in the library and my coffee shop with the sunny patio and sugar-free cookie dough syrup.

The first show was good. Not as good as two weeks ago with the booming sold-out laughs. It’s easy for me now. I don’t warm-up, and I don’t question everything I did while passing Philly’s Best at midnight on my walk home from the train. But also this time is a different kind of good, the kind you don’t need validation to hold. An audience member asked what his partner should do to quit having nightmares. I started singing to myself about my sleep mask, and every time I got into “bed” (sitting on a chair holding a fake comforter next to Dal) I’d remember I had to feed my bat or something. I finally turned out the light and confided in Dal I was scared. He reassured me, so I asked him to take off his clown makeup. Lights.

The show was only 1:15. I hadn’t known we weren’t doing two full acts. I had an hour to kill. Cast cleared out. I wandered outside and asked a stranger to take a photo of me. No book. For once no book. I decided to forego my usual Saturday Uber and walk to SC. The evening was perfectly pink and humid. I could feel my curls loosening. I listened to Wilco. That teeny pilgrimage both heavy with August and light with leaving. “Burn down the missions”: lyrics I’ve decided I now understand. I bought the last walk-up ticket for Puhg.

Show Two. It was a new girl’s first go—something right, something cycled. The ensemble sang a warm-up about me. Our title was “Grease-y” so I got to be an updated Sandy. Flood initiated a drag race drag race. We go together.

Back at i_, I saw just the fewest sweet friends, and I was very happy. Gor said, “You were right about everything,” and Kram told me I was the girl he would miss. Roma was babysitting, so when it was time to go home she met me at Philly’s Best, but they were understaffed and not making fries. We went to the dumb ol’ corner for crinkle cut ones instead.

Skeletons

Been going through family photos, all the family photos, because my mom asked me to a year ago. They've been in the corner of the living room, behind the couch. A stupid coffee table. Now I'm moving, so I started scanning last week. I finished a couple days ago. So here. They're all digital so everyone can have them. But after staring at dozens of shots of the same baby in the same outfit and hundreds of now divorced newlyweds and many grainy shots of cars or strangers, I think I'd be good with a handful. And seeing one's whole life and one's family's whole life in snaps and snaps, back bent as I hunched over, something roared up inside of me. It claws. I shut the rubber tubs. I can't wait until they are gone.

Two weeks ago while I was visiting my dad I hunted for my old Gameboy. Found it under my twin bed, still working. I popped in the one game I never beat, Zelda (barely touched it, was too hard for ten year old me). I've been playing about an hour a day since. Usually after I run an errand or I am tired of talking to people. I have half the instruments for the Wind Fish. Today I got to the Catfish Dungeon and I couldn't for the life of me kill this jumping skeleton. I finally caved and read the cheat for it online. I needed to use bombs, not just my sword. Once I beat it, it ran away. I knew I'd meet it again, later, probably stronger and faster. Then I did, but it was the exact same. Just had to do it twice.

In my initial Nintendo search I was reminded of just how much stuff I had amassed at Dad's. Around 20 boxes in the basement. Some full of camp stuff, others Chicago debris, personal junk, clothes out of style, and, a few heaps of college stuff, last touched on my graduation day. Books on books about theatre. I had thought I'd keep them for when I got a bigger place with more shelf space, but I hope I never have more shelf space, not for what I can forget about for years. I sweat through my middle school basketball shirt and ripped my fading blue shorts on a tack. A van-load of very full, very big bins to Goodwill. I emptied them carefully into a cart while the employee upturned and dumped. There's something that hurts seeing it go. But it hurts to more, a dull distant ache, to know it was all there, under the front door, under the earth. Four left. Two of letters and photos. I need more than a day to sort those. And two of old t-shirts in case one day I want to make a quilt.