Chronicles Continued

The curse of living alone. Yesterday evening, wanted to ‘remote control’ the AC and looked for the hand-held-device. Could not find it. Looked in the usual places, not there. Then one starts looking in the unusual places, hoping against hope, it isn’t there, because that would be a true sign of the beginnings of de-railment. Unusual places include, but are not limited to, the refrigerator, drawers completely unrelated to holding such equipment, behind the flower pots, make-up bag, and kitchen cupboards. Happily, or unhappily, depending onto which end of the candle for reassurance one is holding, it was not to be found. Went to bed. Got up middle night to work on project, continued to search. Decided light of day would be more productive. Morning arrives, and now I am on my knees, looking under desk, under anything that rises from the floor, and it is nowhere. This is when one wants desperately to have a roommate. A fresh pair of eyes, someone else to give it a thought. This type of event puts one pretty close to the edge of the precipice of ‘am I losing it?’. The morning turns into noon, and as I reach one more time to adjust the AC button on the unit, a new idea dawns. The paper recycle. The Paper Bag carried to the basement, yesterday, was in the vicinity of the AC remote control. I am in luck, as the asst, asst super was just switching out the full bags, and I dumped my paper recycle into the new bag. And here I am now, digging around in the same self bag, thinking this has got to be it. Not much more than my detritus and the 300 page Sunday NYTimes. I lift the layers out, pulling up the bottom of the large clear plastic bag and then I feel it. The hard plastic in among the paper shreds. The AC remote. Alone in the basement, I exclaim,’Eureka!’ not caring if I look like a crazy dumpster diver. But then the next thought: what if my paper recycle had ‘topped off’ the bags being put out yesterday. You might never have heard from me again, as it would have eventually driven me mad, wondering where it had gone! The small favors of life.

This bouquet was the conclusion. We showed up, she early, me late and sick from the trauma of the morning, dogs, lost keys, locked out. I sipped orange soda to feel better, – no idea why that helps – she set up for the scene… and as they say ‘You bring on stage whatever is happening. Don’t try to work around it, work with it.’ We did the scene, we were asked to do it twice and the ‘mentor’ said we got it. Whilst breaking down the set, she presented the bouquet of flowers to me, saying: ‘thank you for putting up with all that happened during our rehearsal period’. It was a thoughtful gesture, as I love nothing more than flowers.

And that was all she wrote. She is now in rehearsal for another production and I hear nada.

In acting classes, one of the ‘jobs’ is to find a scene from a play, rehearse it with a fellow actor a number of times in a number of ways and then after approximately six rehearsals present it to the person from whom you are taking the class. The current class is an in-depth look at Noel Coward via his letters, plays and short stories. I am assigned a partner, and a scene from Present Laughter. This is a play for which I wanted to audition in another city. My scene partner is an accomplished actor, which is always a delight, as there is much to learn. We agree to our first rehearsal time and place. On the appointed day, I am about to leave to meet her and receive a text that ‘something’ has come up, can we meet the same time and same place, but the next day. Knowing life can get in the way of best laid plans, of course I agree, and change my plans for the day and the next. The next day comes, I show up, and am surprised that she is not there. I wait. Eventually, 15 minutes late, she arrives. She has a story on why she is late. Late can happen to anyone and so we get on with the rehearsal scene. After 90 minutes of work, we agree to meet again in two days. We set a new place and time. That evening I receive a text that she would like to leave that very evening to go out of town, and well, she is sorry but could we just make another date and time. What am I going to do, refuse her request? She is married, with adult children, and clearly has responsibilities with which I am not saddled. She sets another time to meet to which I agree. It is in a few days. Our appointed day/time arrives. I am sitting, waiting and the appointed hour passes. It passes by 30 minutes. [I have my own self-preservation rule, Drs., actors, anyone but my own children, 30 minutes is the maximum that I will allow anyone to disregard my time. Then I’m gone.] I text her: “Where are you?! I’m confused.” I am about to gather up my belongings and I hear her voice call out, ‘I’m here’. It is 35 minutes past our agreed upon time. I figure these are good lessons for me, in something, so I swallow my discontent and get on with the rehearsal. As we are done rehearing we agree to go ahead and ‘put the scene’ up on the coming Sunday. We will meet at 8:30 am for one last rehearsal before the 10:00 am class. She lives ‘out-of-town and must either drive in or take the train. The appointed day arrives, I text her at 7:30 to reconfirm or early appointment. In response I receive a text photo of a car with a badly banged up fender. She has had a ‘terrible car crash and the police are putting her through the impaired test.’ She is not going to make the rehearsal or the scene class. Now at this point, I wonder if I am caught up in some sort of candid camera episode. This can not be happening with such regularity. I attend the class, and only say that “my scene partner is unable to make it and thus there will be no scene work from me/us. She writes a follow up email that afternoon, which I am loath to answer, asking what went on in class. Waiting a bit, I reply ‘class was great, and would she please set up the next two rehearsals: time and place’. Her response a few hours later, is an answer that does not fit any question. This is followed immediately by an apology that she sent me two texts intended for her son. I don’t respond. She then texts two rehearsals times and places. I agree.
The next rehearsal is the following day. I am sitting, waiting, and receive a text that she took off too late from home and may miss her targeted train. Arrival will be delayed by 30 minutes. There are three more texts as she misses the train, then the next one is cancelled then the following train, which was the original train arrives… I’m beyond confused or believing, asking myself, how does she get through life like this? I am more in wonder than any other reaction, it is so far from where I live and operate. Later discover she lives 78 miles outside of the City. That is a loooong train ride, as she is not on an express service, but one that makes stops along the route. She finally rolls in 20 minutes late. Now a week later, Sunday approaches and we are ready to go up. Add to this particular Sunday my having lost my keys and being locked out two hours prior to this class. Is there something about this combo that has red flags all over it? We are first up. After we present it, the person who is leading the class says he would like it brought in one more time, as he has comments about her interpretation of her role. In scene study, each actor is to do their own work. No one is to direct the other. We are not to comment on what each other should or should not do. Direction is from the person leading the class. It is absolutely the right approach. Therefore, we agree to one more rehearsal, which was today. Are you ready for this? She was 30 minutes late again, and why? She got on the train going in the wrong direction, got caught in the rain. Hell or highwater, we are ‘on’ tomorrow. To be concluded… one way or another.
Conclusion:
This is the beautiful bouquet she gifted me at the end of class as a thank you. A lovely gesture.

When have you last seen raspberries with the stem in, purchased at a City farmers market

Nothing is more enjoyable than taking a young teenager to their first Broadway or Off-Broadway show experience. This past weekend hosted the daughter, of the daughter, of a dear deceased friend. The granddaughter chose to see, from the list I sent her, “39 Steps”. One of the male actors has had a full-time job for the past decade, staring in the various productions of this play. The main male character plays one role. The singular woman in the cast plays 3 women. This leaves dozens of characters to be played by the other two males. An absolute delightful and riotous experience. It accurately mimics the 1935 film directed by Alfred Hitchcock. It is chocky-block full of innuendos and references to other Hitchcock productions- such as: ‘one of the women’ stands at the bottom of a ladder, just before ascending, turns to the audience and says, “Oh I hate to do this, I have – wait for it – VERTIGO. The production demands expert timing and copious energy from 4 cast members. No matter how often I see it, I delight in the work. There is always an intermission, one of the few times an intermission makes sense. If nothing else, the actors need a break from the pace and a tall drink of water.

Observations within minutes of each other on Park Avenue South. A dark-skinned man, dressed in a long-sleeved-buttoned-at-the-wrist-black shirt and pants, kneeling in Islamic prayer position on the-90-degrees-in-the-shade-hot-sidewalk. Immediately came to mind the Bible quote when Jesus exhorts whomever not to be demonstrative in public prayer but to do it in their room with the door shut – [my paraphrasing]. No sooner was the pray-er standing again, than an extremely thin, dark-skinned man dressed in cowboy boots, black tights, short black skirt with red tutu on top, silk blouse, large red tote, and red feather boa – there’s more, dark curly wig, and red cowboy hat, came into sight. It took a gathering of all my polite upbringing not to stare for too long. I did however let the tutu person pass me so I could observe from behind. The most striking part was not the tutu or the red boa, but that the heel of cowboy boot on the right foot was so badly worn down on an angle it caused an uncomfortable gait and noticeable limp.

It was about 10:30 on Saturday night. He, a white male, in his 50’s entered the subway car carrying a gym bag. He looked like any other passenger, although he carried energy because he was already loudly talking. One becomes enured to the loud mouth attempting to gain attention for their shspeal, for money, food, something, from each person in the car. But he wanted attention, and was loud enough to get it. He was ranting about his Bronx education, the ‘state of the union’ and all of it so loud and obnoxious I really wanted to look him in the eye and say, “Enough already, just shut the fact up”. But he was carrying a gym bag, a bag big enough to contain anything, including a weapon. So instead, out of my rather large tapestry tote bag, I fished out my sunglasses, put them on so he couldn’t catch my eye, and decided to bear it, no grin. I was annoyed at the fact that he could come and command all of our space without our consent. He raved and ranted for two stops. At the third stop, a number of passengers left, and I wondered if they had just moved on to another car, as that is what one does when the present car is presenting an unacceptable environment. Then the 4th stop came, and when the doors opened, and a band of New York’s Finest boarded. Both doors gave them entrance and they met all variations on the theme: male, female, black white, asian. To my utter astonishment, The Mouth shut up and sat down. Through my sunglasses I stared at him. He wasn’t ‘out-of-control” at all. He was, in my estimation, just another bully. He was bullying the entire car, because he could. Because he had tried it before and no one stopped him. Stop number 6 he stands, and as he goes to exit, he has to clear the cop crowd. He turns to the nearest uniformed man and begins a 30 second tribute to how fine they are, and that they have a hard job and protect us, and how thankful we all are. By now my eyes are wider than my lenses. He exits, the officers mumble a unified ‘thank you’ and the door closes. I take off my glasses, return them to my bag and look up a the handsome male cop standing next to my seat. “I don’t believe that,” I say. I tell him the entire story, about the R&R and then their arrival with the ensuing silence and then the exit tribute. They smile at me and say “Yeah, we see a lot of that.” I continue on talking about my amazement when I look down and see that on my left arm, is the tangled yellow paper bracelet, that I had been given to wear at the Country Club event I attended with friends in Westchester County. Earlier on the way home, I had tried to remove it, but could not, so it was twisted and half hidden under the bangles I was wearing. Suddenly I wondered, if seen through other eyes, had I perhaps just wandered away from some ‘facility’. My stop was next. Had NY’s finest wondered if there had been two ‘live ones’ on that ride?

not the race. Perhaps you already know this, but I find it so wrong on many levels. Sprint has been a difficult company over the past two years. Decided to return to AT&T because the Sprint company from the 90’s is not the Sprint company of 2015. The main issue is that I have no regular service at my apartment. Depending on the day, I can have 25 dropped calls in a morning. A frustrating experience, to say the least. So phone in hand, went to AT&T to have my service switched over, keeping my same phone. At the AT&T store, the person helping me could not get the SIM card of AT&T to work in my phone. Left the AT&T store, went to a coffee shop and telephoned Sprint. Sprint: “to unlock the phone, wipe phone clean and then Sprint will unlock it”. Off to the Apple Store. At Apple: back up phone, telephone Sprint, speak to three departments, get assurance phone is now unlocked, internationally and domestically, reload phone. That takes more than an hour’s time. Head back to AT&T. Retry SIM card to find it is still invalid. Call Sprint now with AT&T tech person on the other earphone. It takes 20 minutes to finally get the truth from Sprint. My international ‘unlock’ would only be effective on my phone, when I was abroad, using Sprint service. Domestically? The phone’s hardware at manufacture is made to make switching over to any other carrier impossible. That means that every Sprint cell phone, is trashed when Sprint losses a customer. I find that outrageous. I did not need another/different/new hand held phone. I needed a different carrier. Shame on Sprint.

I was on my way to an appointment, near home, early this afternoon. It had already been a long day. I was dragging behind me my satchel, which isn’t quite a suitcase, but a sort of small container on wheels. It is used to carry what another person would put in a backpack. This method of transporting articles is all-round easier for me. The wind was blowing my hair, the sun was bright- that special sun that comes with wind. I was about to cross the line on the sidewalk into the shade of the building to my right. I don’t know how I noticed it, but as I was striding along, all of a sudden I stopped short. Right in front of my rolling bag- the next movement would have been right over it- was a small bird. How it had escaped being trampled already was astonishing. The young couple walking at my speed behind me, nearly plowed into me, but at the last moment went around me, like flowing water ’round a rock. I looked down at this tiny bird to access what I thought was happening; I couldn’t tell. It just sat there. I continued to look at it, and it continued to sit there. One of us had to do something, so I bent down and with a fluid movement enclosed the feathered body in my hand; his [as it was plain brown-therefore likely a she] spindly legs and feet dangling between my ring and little fingers. Now I stood there with bird in hand. This is taking place beside a busy restaurant with sidewalk tables. I don’t know how the people sitting just two or three feet away had missed him. I turned my head toward the tables and saw a couple of people, looking, smiling, but no one said or did anything. It was quiet. My first thought was to take the bird to the veterinarian where I had once brought the wounded pigeon. [This was the same side of the street as the pigeon and a few yards away from that spot.] While thinking of that, and taking a few steps forward, the little body fluffed in my hand. This communicated to me that the wings were not damaged. The second thought that came to mind was a chance article I had read a couple of weeks ago, about making water available for city and migrating birds. As this thought entered my head, I looked around and saw there was no water on the ground, no puddles, no dishes for dogs which some restaurants offer. Water, I decided was the answer. I walked about 20 feet to the tree with an undergrowth of weeds and set the little bird down, between the filigree branches of something that resembles dill. I took the lid off the empty water bottle in my purse, and as I was now outside of the Golden Rabbit, where flowers are sold, I took the lid, filled it with water from a bucket of flowers and set it down in front of the bird. He didn’t move. I just watched. Still he didn’t move. I had to get on, so I left. Three hours later I returned. Less water in the tiny bowl, no bird. I looked all through the growth, but he was gone. I will never know. Tonight I will put a bowl of water on my fire escape.

Life is what happens when you’re circling the block.