High Off Albee

So I went to hear Edward Albee speak tonight (David Henry Hwang was also there). It was a panel discussion, and the subject was "Mentoring in the Arts."

Now, I had a question I wanted to ask Albee. I had heard he went to my gym (McBurney YMCA). I've been going there for many years, but have never seen him until about 3 months ago. And I totally blew it. Lost my nerve in that moment.

So tonight, by God, I was going to ask my question of Albee. The audience Q&A portion was really short. Didn't get my question in. I wait there after by the backstage door until Albee comes out, and I approach him, shake his hand, and ask my question. I think I sounded coherent, maybe even intelligent, but I can 't be entirely sure. Bit of a haze. He was quite nice to me.

Question not so important. But the answer was ... basically ... that I should trust my instincts.

So I'm walking for a bit in Tribeca toward the Village, getting some air ... gonna jump on the number 1 train at Christopher and head uptown.

And I'm thinking weird things. I was really sick a few weeks ago. Still have a little cough, but I'm 99.9% sure I'm not contagious anymore. But you know, Swine Flu Panic is in the air. And my writer's imagination starts wandering as it often does. What about that .01% chance I'm wrong? Albee is quite old now, and I shook his hand. How irresponsible! What if my germs KILL Edward Albee, probably our greatest living playwright? How horrible would that be!?

And then I pass this woman. Blonde, curly hair pinned up, really smart looking, cute. Can't tell her age, but looked of an age where I wouldn't feel totally foolish approaching her. And I am free to do that again, having separated from my wife of many years last June (well, more like she separated from me).

I'm really high from Albee -- I'm on Albee crack -- "trust your instincts"!

But no, I've got to get home. I really need to log 3 more hours of design work tonight. I turn and look at her, and she fixes her curly hair using a dark store window as a mirror -- lets it down and pins it up again -- and turns the corner. Very cute the way she did that.  Man.

I stand there for about 30 seconds.

"Home?  No. Trust instincts. Albee said it. It applies to more than playwriting. It applies to everything! What's my instinct? To go home. No! To follow! Okay, I'm going to round the corner at Jones Street. If I see her anywhere nearby, it's meant to be. If I don't, then time to go home."

I round the corner, and bless my lucky stars, I see her quite clearly through the window inside this nearby music cafe/bar, and there's this cool folksy rock trio playing, and she's sitting alone writing stuff in a notebook.

Oh God, she's a writer too. You are now required to go in, you daft fool!

I'm totally into signs and fate and shit. Though the signs usually turn out to be wrong. Still one can dream. And this is a sign. She should have been long gone down a dark street, but I found her.

So, I go in and sit at the bar. [I'm not really a bar person, you see, since I don't drink, especially when I'm alone and not with friends, so this is not my natural environment -- not like a theatre -- but this place also has food and music, so it's okay.] The band is playing song after song. The longest set ever. But they're good and very interesting, so it's fun. Kagero, Japanese Gypsy Rock.

I order some bruschetta and a coke from the bartender. I may not drink, but I'm good at eating.

She's writing away, so I figure she's writing a story about them. Probably a music critic. Not cool to disturb her while she's working. And besides, I'm still trying to figure out my angle. My opening. I could tell her about this cool duo I know who just cut an album -- Dagmar. Sound really with-it. Speak her language. But she'd figure out that was the extent of my indie music knowledge pretty quickly ... or maybe, something like, "I just met Edward Albee...."

Finally, after the longest time, 35-40 minutes, I ask the female bartender (cross between Betty Boop and Bettie Page), "Let me ask you something, I haven't dated in a long time ... would it be creepy or nice to send a another drink to the woman sitting in the corner?" The bartender assures me that it' s not creepy.

Woman gets the drink. Looks surprised a little. Looks my way and smiles -- not with reckless abandon or anything. Kind of a little embarrassed, but flattered. I nod my best "really-nice-guy-not-creepy-barfly-nod." And look away. Don't want to force the issue. Band is still playing. She's still writing. Still working. But now SHE KNOWS. When they finish playing, I can casually go have a word now that I've given myself an "in." Probably won't even have to resort to the highly questionable, jury-is-definitely-still-out-line -- "I just met Edward Albee.”

Then her husband walks in.

Apparently, my eyesight is failing rapidly. Didn't see that ring.

I am huge dork. Albeeeeeee! Damn you, Albee!

The band finishes, and I think, "What the hell. I'll make a joke of it." It's either that or slink out with my tail between my legs. And I know that would leave a horrible taste in my mouth. I'd taste that for a while. One of the advantages of being big, is that you're pretty confident most of the time that your size will discourage people (men) from going to that angry place with you. So I wasn't too worried about getting slugged or anything.

I go over and introduce myself to the husband.

To her first, "Sorry, my eyesight is going. I didn't see the ring."

Her -- "That's okay."

Me to him -- "Hi, my name is Stephen. I just bought your wife a drink."

Him -- "Oh really?" [Oddly, he doesn't seem as amused as I thought he'd be ... maybe she didn't tell him?]

Me to her [figuring some self-deprecating humor might break the ice] -- "Too bad I didn't leave before your husband got here, you could have made me out to be much younger and better looking. [beat -- me thinking -- "'Leave before he got here'? -- that sounds like I'm doing something behind his back. That could be misconstrued."] What are you writing about? An article?"

Her -- "Oh, it's for a class project."

Me -- "Cool."

Me thinking -- "Okay, she's in class ... way younger than I thought. Now I probably seem like a real creep."

Me saying -- "Well, very nice meeting you. [Eye contact with both of them.] Enjoy your evening."

Doy!

Back to the bar.

What's the lesson here?

Just cuz you're high off of Edward Albee, don't let it go to your head for Godsake!


Epilogue -- I did stay for a bit longer and chatted with the very nice "period" bartender, and she introduced me to her friend, Wade, who had his Mac laptop with him sitting on the bar and designed websites and produced theatre, so we talked a little shop. They're producing Barefoot in the Park in July at that really tiny theatre in the Village (forgot the name). I also talked to Kaz Fujimoto, the lead singer of Kagero. Really terrific folks. I didn't even notice when the woman and her husband slipped out. And only afterwards did I really take note of where I was -- cool place -- nice people -- great free music -- Caffe Vivaldi at 32 Jones Street.