Had a long walk Sunday evening, by the yellow flowers that line the highway. DM, my friend from high school theatre in Missouri, came to the matinee. We were in Crimes of the Heart together. It was the last show I'd see of the run. Feels bizarre. There will be so many more performances I'm going to miss. I'd do a lot to be (at least) at closing, to see where the gals end up--but not so much as booking another plane ticket and hotel. Felt right to have DM there though. Because the play is set in St. Louis, and written by me, there are so many little Easter eggs that he and only he would get. What fun. When the bows ended I turned to him to see tears running down his face.
During the talkback a librarian cried. The theatre's marketing manager cried. A woman told a story about her friend dying young and laughed. A doctor wrung his hands, confessed he is not prepared for a mass shooting at his hospital--though he knows one could, and probably will, happen.
It was such an amazing week. Got in late Monday, bought beverages from the hotel lobby, danced around to Taylor Swift at 1 am. Tuesday I wrote at the French bakery, answered some production emails for New York, went to the thrift store on a whim to find three excellent options for opening. A pink long thing, a pink fluffy thing, a pink shorts thing, and a very cool jean jacket for $25--which I proceeded to wear every single day like I'm the James Dean of theatre.
Showed up to rehearsal at 5, got to see all the amazing femmes leading the charge. Just the coolest crew you can imagine--sound designer, costumer, lights, assistant stage manager, set designer, stage managers, props. Literally they were all so hip and nice and interesting. The understudies were tiny and goofy and the cast was overwhelmed with line notes. We ate a bunch of Pop-Tarts and then I broke to have a solo dinner at the Ethiopian spot. Potatoes and green beans and lentils without my phone.
The run made me gasp. I took six notes. I told everyone how wonderful they were. In the morning I was on the internet a long time. Something about the hotel bed I guess. I walked down the busy street for groceries. Tried to get just enough for five days. Now, on the other side of packing, I overbought--but only by a few eggs, two veggie sausages, M & Ms, a protein shake give or take.
Blasted through emails and wrote sipping a marshmallow latte at the weird cafe. Pip called at 2 to talk about my deals and the new project. He encouraged me/us to send it to some companies I'm wary of (in a helpful way) and sternly told me I was going to have to meet with people I don't want to.
Invited dress was cute. Some little muffins came and snapped a lot. I blasted Sabrina Carpenter and read my Jung book as I've been doing. Thursday blursday. I know I sat with our dramaturg in the corner noting that sticky part of scene four, laughing about taking things literally, was up to my neck in producing emails. There was a small, older crowd. A group of four 70somethings watched intensely, never laughing the entire time, but afterward one just said WOW and they all talked in the lobby about how much they related for quite a while. I stayed late to see all the details come together. The sound of the cup and the flicker of the purple light and the papaya rug getting stuck to the floor. I wore a peach dress with gold buttons.
Friday I was determined to do some personal writing, had a repeat of the marshmallow latte. Now I am emotionally attached to marshmallow lattes and telling the barista I get the artist discount. The executive director happened by and told me about her volleyball match and her late sister Andrea. Had an all-call on my comic. Every artist, every lawyer, my manager. It was a lot of nothing, which is annoying. And the producers dropped that I'd be getting paid six months later than they last told me, twelve months later than they first told me. I was very angry. I wrote a blunt email. One of them responded on Instagram DM and told me I hurt his feelings, as a friend. I told him he's hurting my livelihood, and I don't want our friendship weaponized against my labor rights. (Yesterday I got an email from my lawyer's office scheduling a call. I pinged Pip, what's this. He said I put the fear of god into the guys. "GOOD" he added.)
Skull ribbed top and shorts to meet the high school teacher for dinner. She showed up pretty professional, and I kept trying to get her to live a little. She told me about her life as an actor, thinks her students don't want to be sick in front of her. I get my period and she says she's past that. Said she went out with a bang, never remembering to bring pads around as long as she lived.
At the show I see my summer camp co-counselor from 2008! She took the train down from NYC at 4 am. Iconically, we were very close that year. I had no idea about the culture of Maine and she had no idea about being an adult. She taught me where the socials were and I taught her how to do laundry. She says she wants a guy but none are good enough now that she's a boss at a big architecture firm. She sighs, "still I rise!" I remember every morning we would shower one girl with praise, in the counselor huddle, by the still lake, wood chips under us. Everyone gave such NICE compliments and then when it was my turn for my girl I said, "I would take a bullet for you." And no one laughed, because I spoke so clearly. I probably meant it.
My high school bestie AM was there! She flew from Chicago even. I feel so honored and also worried. I sit in the corner and spend a lot of the show watching the teens in the front row. One grabs his dad and one blinks and one keeps leaning in, just a little then a little more then a little more.
After I meet this guy from Michigan who worked on the hill for an anti-gun activist. We talk about his life doing drills, the overwhelming feeling of being aware politically. He says he flips off the NRA building when he drives by it. His boyfriend nods, their friend is in a bright shirt. He doesn't say much then follows me on Instagram.
The way AM talks is pretty meandering. I try to get on her level. I ask, wait, so when did you get divorced? And then we kind of snake into her life in the sorority and the time we went to a museum as teens and a bit about her child and a bit about how she is on a group chat with a lot of older lesbians in the neighborhood and she gets me a collection of stickers plus cheddar bunnies, which I eat right then. We have a coffee and compare parents--who I thought they were from my adolescent eyes and who they are now, vice versa. I do an impression of her first husband the last time we hung out.
Approve a bunch of marketing materials for the opening. It's tedious but I asked for it. Lay down twenty minutes before K Ho calls, she is here. She arrives hyped up on a double espresso, she says she drinks one every afternoon. Her head is mostly shaved and she's been playing a new sport. "In my element," she clarifies. We enter into recapping the past through the funny route of examining a different annoying girl we both knew.
I'm so happy to hear she's happy in all the things--parenthood, childhood, wifehood, sport hood, and even--a mid-life crisis (her words). She says the old me is coming back. I took offense, like you don't really know, but she's not really wrong. Sat outside by the pool going over college, and she mostly apologized. I got glammed for the show, and we went to the tiki bar. She said something I'd never thought about before (ignorant) and we laughed a lot and hated on the haters and when we were leaving a girl asked us a question then apologized for interrupting out first date. She said, "What's the opposite of that?"
The show was EXCELLENT. That official buzz was zooming through the space. The crowd leapt up at the end. Old biddies and young goons cackling. There was a cake with the poster on it and the mayor wanted to sit on the set bed with me and talk about his hopes and dreams for his beloved city. People like to tell me how great they are. I wonder what it is about me, besides the fact that I really don't mind. I mean, I rarely mind, when people tell me how great they are. What's wrong with being great?
Leads are real best friends, understudies drunk. One just broke up with her boyfriend. The director's husband suggests the tiki bar and everyone chants about how fun he is. K Ho takes a million photos of me, understanding the assignment. She takes a hit from her vape on our way out, I ask if she would have believed in twenty years she'd be getting high in my hotel room after coming to my play's premiere.
I buy Thai shots for everyone, distribute them saying it's ironic, for this group specifically, to do shots. They all laugh evil little laughs. The stage manager is dear to me. I am reading her graduate thesis about girlhood in theatre now. She is quiet and wears a choker that reads "BAD BITCH." K Ho and I talk until 3 am, I stop talking when "The Archer" comes on. I get annoyed by how much she talks about cars.
Can't sleep in Sunday, get up, crack a canned coffee, and go insane on producing work. Finish in the nick of time for dramaturg coffee. Hot rosemary scone. We express mutual adoration for each other. We work so well together. I tell them, I'd die to do it again and also we have little control over that. They don't bat it away, a true theatremaker who knows. "Or maybe in 15 years," they say. "Maybe in 15 years," I agree.
Figured I'd be emotional after but knew I'd have dinner or something with DM, to soften the blow. But he revealed he only had half an hour. He drank a cold brew and we went nuclear on catch-ups. Who knew what about old pals and the time I visited him at college and how he's a boring musician but a cool lawyer. And then it was all over. It was 4:30 and what was I supposed to do. Hence the long walk. No matter how special an artistic community is, when the art is gone, there you suddenly are alone.
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