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Sunday, August 08, 2004 My second year after college, I tried out existence in the town my brother lived in: New Paltz, just across the flats from the easternmost reaches of the Catskills, home to the state college my brother attended. A small town in those years, no longer so small thanks to its location on the Thruway (90 minutes north of N.Y.C.) and its character -- not too expensive, reasonably friendly, with a slightly rural feel and the faintest tinge of hippydom. I lasted a year in New Paltz. A fairly turbulent 12 months, as it turned out -- no humongo surprise, given the general turbulence of that time in my little life. There were positive aspects, there was some fun, but also abundant weirdness, plenty of my then-customary flailing around. New Paltz had no theater happening, apart from productions given by the college's theater department. A problem for someone like me, with a dramatic arts degree and a serious acting jones. And then shortly after the holidays had lurched through, giving way to the new year and deep, sloppy winter weather, I came across a handbill for auditions at a small theater a half-hour's drive north, past Kingston and out on a country two-lane, a little-used road that wound through a hollow between heavily wooded hills. When I showed for the try-out, I found an old country church that an enterprising type had taken over and turned into a performing space. The altar had become a stage, everything else remained essentially as it had been -- tall, beautiful windows; rows of pews; dark, heavy wood everywhere -- with the addition of some lighting equipment. And a motley handful of theater folk. Theater folk who were glad to see me, me apparently being the only twit to show up for the try-out. (A twit, fortunately, who could act.) They read me for a two-person piece by a French playwright, Pinget, translated/adapted by his friend, Samuel Becket. A long, quirky conversation between two elderly Irish men, old friends who encounter each other in a park after years of no contact. My father's side of my family: 100% Irish. A part like this came as no stretch for me. Quickly, I found myself in rehearsals, working with a guy named John, also of Irish extraction, but purer than mine, showing unmistakably in his face, a kind of Irish mug I saw in trips to Eire years later. A lovely guy, older than me, married, with an infant he doted on. I enjoyed working on that piece, enjoyed working with John. Life in the theater beyond that was something else again. The place was the fiefdom of a talented goofball: Alan. Good actor. A dramatic son of a bitch onstage and, unfortunately, off. Dramatic and libidinous, living with a 20-something woman, carrying on with her 30-something sister on the side, messing around with yet another 30-something woman on the other side. Nice people, all three women, unhappy with it all, yet making no visible moves to disentangle themselves. Alan now and then seemed to feel he was a victim, making shows of self-righteous angst and indignation. As clueless as I was at that time in my life, as proficient as I was at creating messy, dramatic situations in my life, nothing I created during the year in New Paltz compared with what I saw at this theater. But I didn't have to spend too much out-of-rehearsal time around all that. I got to know John and his wife some, a nice aspect of my time in the show. They seemed somewhat entangled with Alan and all the rest of that world, a natural deterrent to me getting deeply entangled with them (my inner alarm system went off any time I began spending too much time around the wackiness happening beyond the limits of the theater's stage, alarm bells confirmed by strange, dramatic fireworks that went off at the production's end). Plus, I had plans to move cross-country soon after the run of the show. Which I did. And that was that. Five years later, back on the east coast, married (the one and only such lapse in my lifetime to date) and living in New York City, I ran into John one chilly, gray day in Manhattan. Both of us were in the middle of trying times, we exchanged cheery, well-intentioned but awkward greetings, caught up briefly, awkwardly, exchanged phone numbers (awkwardly), never called each other. An outcome I felt badly about and have wished I could change. Every now and then he'd pass through my thoughts, I'd wonder where life took him, I'd wonder if I'd ever get a chance to find out. Montpelier has an equity theater company that produces shows in the town hall during the warm season, last month they produced a script by an Irish playwright, Brian Friel, a show I'd thought about checking out. Thought about, but never actually saw. It closed just over two weeks ago. During a trip into town several days later, I picked up one of the local weekly papers. Back home, I paged through it, came across a review of the show (a bit late to affect box office), and found myself staring at a photo of an Irish face I recognized. Years older, but unmistakably John. My hands grabbed the phone, punched in the theater's phone number. A woman there confirmed that John had been in the Friel play and had bolted town immediately after, home now being somewhere in western Massachusetts. I gave them my name/phone number, asked if they would pass them along to John with a request to call. They consented. Nine or ten days later -- this last weekend -- the phone rings. I answer, someone begins laying a line on me about being a voice from the past. And there he was, sounding older, more crisp, more solid. I cut off his intro line, calling out, "Hey, John!" Hilarity ensued. Catching up has begun. Life -- it delivers. Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 2:49 PM [+]
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