That's all there is. There isn't any more ...

Day 47: Tuesday, April 4

This is the first of these entries I’ve written while the day is still ongoing, but it’s a travel day, so I’m assuming not a lot will happen. I’m currently on the plane, 38067 feet in the air, somewhere over the Great Lakes from the looks of it. (The map in front of me is not at all helpful.)

The day began early. Once again, I wanted to get up and get out of Beth’s way so we could both be out of the bathroom in time, so I was up out of bed at about 8:40. I got out around 9:15 and started the real process of packing: getting stuff out of the closet, shoving things in my suitcases, and stripping the bed and getting the towels ready to wash. Part of the agreement for the place was that it be returned as clean as we got it, including all the linens. 

That was a fair deal, but it meant I had to be ready to spend a good part of morning downstairs at the laundromat watching clothes spin around, and I’m not Zippy the Pinhead.

The cleaner arrived almost exactly on time, so I let her in, explained/apologized for what needed to be done, then gathered up everything that needed to be washed. As I left, she was plunging in with both elbows into the kitchen (which didn’t seem that bad, but apparently was) and I told her that if she needed me for anything, she should just text or call. She needed a new spray bottle of Lysol, which I was more than happy to get, if only to ease some of my guilt.

I went downstairs, loaded a machine, started the wash, then headed down to one of the bodegas to get the Lysol, which I happily took back to her. From then on, it was back to the laundromat to watch the Slowest Man in the World Who Also Doesn’t Quite Get How This All Works go up to the Big Dryer (the one marked for blankets and other heavy-duty drying) and place one thing in it, then one quarter, which would buy him five minutes of heat, not enough to dry a moist saltine. (I noticed later he also had a full load of Stuff That Should Never Be Dried on High in another machine; hope he likes small clothes.) Eventually, he put in more quarters, but never quite enough to get the job done.

My job was done, though, so I collected my wares and headed back upstairs to put things back in order. To my surprise, the cleaner was still working on the lower floor (where we almost never were, other than the kitchen). Beth told me she was going to the bagel place and 7-11 and asked if I needed anything. I said no, since I’d be going out later myself. She left and I went upstairs to figure out how the mattress would be best placed on the pallets it sits on and got everything back to normal. Beth eventually came back and I took that as my cue to head to the post office to mail home the inflatable bed I’d bought on the second day of the trip.

I was a little wary going to this particular post office because of, yes, Yelp, but the people there couldn’t have been faster or friendlier, despite their online reputation, so I got out with much more ease that it had been to get there. (Suffice it to say, small, poorly-balanced box on a poorly-balanced luggage carrier. It was not fun.) I was a little worried that the cleaner might not be done by the time the car was due to pick me up (2:00) and my flight had been delayed, so I called and arranged for a later pickup. I stopped at Tompkins Square Bagels for a final visit, bought a dozen, then went home.

To my renewed surprise, the cleaner was almost done (I guess upstairs was easier than down) and Beth had given her the payment I’d left in just such a case. I wrote Olga an email that detailed all the things we had done (the cleaner, washing the sheets, the wifi going out [it never did return], where I’d left the keys and mail), The cleaner left and Beth and I were left to sit and chat while she waited for her Lyft and I for my ride. We were both stunned at how quickly the whole thing had gone; when we started, it seemed like it was going to be endless, but now felt like it had all happened in a week. (And yet, so many of the events feel like they happened years ago.) We talked about all of it, then her ride came, and I was left alone.

 Shot taken Tuesday morning from inside the living room, 

looking south on Avenue B

Taken a couple of weeks ago, looking west on 11th.

My bedroom is the top floor on the corner, Beth's is just to the right

I almost immediately burst into tears (I’m a little misty-eyed now, writing this) since so much had happened. Well, I mean, if you’ve read this far, you know … I called Pidge, who talked me down, and while I was on the phone, I got a text that my driver was there (he was early, which was fine, since there was really nothing left to be done), so I took a last look around, hauled my suitcases down to the front door (no easy feat), then outside and down to the sidewalk. The driver met me, put the luggage in the rear of his Suburban, and it was all over.

We took off and got to Newark Airport in pretty good time. My flight was still late, so I wanted to use my free pass and get into the United Club, but they were so full they weren’t allowing one-time users in, so I trudged to (of course!) the last gate and waited. After about an hour, I went back to ask if there was any room at the inn, but there wasn’t, so back I went.

I was hungry, so I stopped at a restaurant and got an overpriced chicken parm sandwich, then headed back to the gate. When I bought my ticket all those months ago, I had put in for an upgrade to first or business class using miles. I didn’t get it on the trip out (and probably would not have gotten a refund had I not insisted on one), but this time I was number two on this list. I kept checking the app to see if I was going to get it. There are 16 business-class seats on this flight (no first class), and the number occupied kept going up and down from 13 to 15 and back. The first guy got an upgrade, but there I was in limbo. My only hope was that only 15 people had checked in and my current seat—4F, interestingly—kept being unoccupied. When I got back to the gate, it was almost time to board, so I went up to the lectern (not a podium) and politely told the gate attendant that I was next on the list and if she knew when they’d be releasing the seat. She asked my name, looked up my info, and said “The seat is yours,” and it’s where I’m sitting now. (Oddly, even though it’s a beautiful day out, I’m the only person in this section with his window shades up.)

 

The sun sinks slowly in the west as I make my way home

It’s been a good flight so far. Mostly quiet as I’ve spent most of it writing this. I plan on going online as soon as I finish it to upload it. I got a chance to use the restroom, and while I was waiting, was speaking to the flight attendant: 

“Going home?” 

“Yeah. I just spent seven weeks in New York and am ready to go home.” 

“What do you do?” 

“I was in a show off-Broadway … “

I described the show, talking it up pretty well, then just now gave her one of the postcards. (“Always. Be. Closing.”) She came back and said how interesting it sounded and that she’d keep an eye out for it in case it has any further life.

I can only hope it does. I’m not quite done with Sam yet.

Beth wrote a note of thanks on Facebook, which inspired me to write my own valedictory. I’m going to cut and paste it here and figure that’ll be the last word.

Thanks to any and all of you who suffered through any and all of this. It was all mainly for me to keep the memories of just what happened (which is why I sometimes—sometimes!—went into tedious detail). I want to remember all of it.

Fortysome years ago, I started acting. I always harbored the dream of being on Broadway, but (as with so many dreams) it eventually became a pipe dream with no chance of happening.

Two years ago, I auditioned for a show. To tell the truth, I wasn't crazy about the play, but the part seemed good. I got the show and the ride began.

As I've related many times, that ride was more roller coaster than anything. Four people playing the other role, an impossible rehearsal process, and what felt like never-ending work.

But it all paid off. I quickly came to love the script. The show was a hit beyond my wildest expectations, and whispers soon circulated about a possible transfer to New York.

Last May, those whispers became shouts. We were going off-Broadway. I made travel plans, booked an Airbnb, and waited for February to finally come. (The wait seemed endless.)

Finally, the day came and, terrified, I left home for the biggest adventure of my career. Somehow, we pulled it off again, I made my off-Broadway debut while living as a New Yorker, and all was right with the world.

In a manner unquantifiable by science, the seven weeks I was going to be here went by in something like ten minutes, and I'm now in the airport, somehow ready to head home (for one night, at least).

How is this possible? I had that rare trip where almost nothing goes wrong, and almost everything goes right--well beyond my capacity to have earned it.

I'll take it, though.

My deepest thanks to Gino DiIorio for writing the play, Leah Abrams and Brian Katz (and the Isenbergs! Always the Isenbergs!) for getting us here, Brendan Averett for being such a swell guy to act with, Beth Hall and Daniel Dixon for being great roommates, and (above all) Pidge Meade for giving me the support to do it.

Dare I say it?

"It was ... a unique experience."

Nothing happens. Twice.

Day 46: Monday, April 3

And what a day it was!

Sort of a fart of a day, but I don’t quite know if it was a wet fart or a dry one.

It began early—way too early, frankly—but I knew we had the cleaning lady coming … sometime (she was fairly unclear when she was arriving when we spoke on the phone), but I’d hoped it was going to be around 10:00, which would still give me time to do … something during the day, even if it was crappy and raining most of the day.

I woke up around 8:30, wanting to complete my own ablutions in enough time to allow Beth to do her own before the cleaner wanted to start on our bathroom (which was pretty nasty in terms of grime on the floor). I finished and waited and waited and waited for either my phone to ring or the buzzer from downstairs to sound, but there was nothing; just a Beckettian void where a housekeeper should have been. (Give me a break; I’m still depressurizing from the end of the show.)

Beth eventually got up, so I figured it was a good time to go mail home the box I’d loaded with stuff I didn’t want to pack. (In retrospect, this was an excellent idea. That box weighed 37.1 pounds and my two bags at the airport weighed 42 and 44 pounds, so the extra weight and space would have cost me dearly. Of course, considering what I ultimately paid to send home two boxes, I probably would have broken even … ) There were (and are, one hopes … ) a number of things in the box: my costume pieces, the programs from the shows I saw, the Sam and Dede diorama, some odds and ends; nothing that I’d need immediately (since the morning after I get home, I’m heading down to Los Angeles for the TCM Classic Film Festival and the box probably won’t have arrived by the time I leave).

The box (one of the ones my gift baskets had arrived in) was a little unwieldy, but I managed to wrestle it onto the luggage carrier that had given me so much grief on Day 2, and wheeled it all down to the mail center on Avenue A between 9^th and 10^th only to find it wasn’t there. “What the hell? I saw it just last night!” I checked Yelp (which has really become my constant companion) and saw that it was on 1^st Avenue, a block over. Relieved that I wasn’t out of my mind (in this regard, at least), I hauled the box another block (seeing many interesting-looking establishments I hadn’t seen and would now never get to patronize), losing control only a couple of times before arriving.

I went to the counter, and got cut off by one of “those guys” who was expecting a very important letter in his mailbox and needed to be notified as soon as it arrived. (This request was put in after he’d asked the clerk about 15 times if the mail had come in yet.) Finally, I got to the counter, placed the box on the scale, and was quoted a price in mid-$100s. I gulped, but realized there probably wasn’t an alternative, and paid up.

 My home away from home away from home

From there, it was back to Tompkins Square Bagels for a snack (maybe the best blueberry muffin I’ve ever had). I phoned Pidge to say hello and explained my frustration over the cleaner neither arriving nor calling. She came up with a novel solution that had not occurred to me: call her. It was such a good idea, I did it. I dialed and got an immediate cutoff. I re-dialed and got what I assumed was a “number is out of service” message in Spanish. Almost immediately, I got a callback from another number, but it was an odd call to say the least. The woman who answered (not the woman to whom I’d previously spoken) asked for Olga, the woman whose place we’ve been renting (even though I was calling from my own phone). Even though the earlier problem of my poor Spanish and her poor English continued, we reached an agreement that she’d come that afternoon to clean up after us.

Almost as soon as I hung up, I realized that if she arrived at 5:00, even if the whole thing took only two hours, that’d be 7:00, and it’d probably be too late for me to do anything. I called her back and asked if she could come by Tuesday at 11:00. She agreed, then almost immediately texted me to confirm the address and the time: Tuesday at 9:00. I immediately texted back a confirmation of the address and asking if we could make it 10:00. She agreed. (In retrospect, this worked out to be all for the best. If we’d done it earlier than Tuesday, we probably would have gotten things all messy again, and if she’d come at 11:00, she might have finished too late for me to get to the airport on time—which was its own adventure. More on that in good time.)

I was now faced with the prospect of having time to do something, but what? There were no shows I wanted to see that were playing on Monday, there didn’t seem to be any restaurants I wanted to go to, and there was no one to see, but I didn’t want to just sit home. I suddenly had a brainstorm, though. Long-time readers (dare I say “constant readers?”*) may remember the tzuris I underwent in trying to decide if I wanted to see Vince Giordano and His Nighthawks play. I didn’t then, but what would be a more perfect way to leave New York? I called to make a reservation, only to be told that the show was sold out that night. I suppose I could have walked up to the club and made my case, but I just felt too thwarted.

What to do, then? I figured I’d take myself out for a last meal, but where? As always, I had a hankering for meat, but what kind? Steak frites is always a good choice, as is a burger or fried chicken. I’d asked Pidge for some ideas the night before, but when I looked them up now, all the top places were closed on Mondays. There were only three places I thought of for chicken, but one was the chaotic place from Saturday night (and I didn’t think I could take that again), one was very good but not quite what I wanted, and one seemed possible, but had mediocre ratings.

I searched on a number of places, but kept running across the problems of their not being open or having later reservations than I wanted.

Ultimately, I came across a listing for Westville East, a place down the block, someplace I’ve walked by pretty much every day but never gone into. They had both steak and burgers, so I figured I’d make the call once I got there. When I did get there (and it was always a strange experience leaving the apartment with no backpack or carrying anything), it was packed to the gills. While there were plenty of couples waiting for tables, being solo I was able to get a seat right at the counter. Making a decision was not easy, but I figured I could really get a steak anywhere, but their burger seemed special, so I went for it. They also had soup, so I ordered split pea—which turned out to be out of stock, so I ended up with tomato—which actually came after I’d gotten the burger. It was all very good, and I was sure I’d made a correct choice after all. I did want dessert, though, and even though Pie Is Emperor of Desserts (and looked very good indeed) “coconut chocolate cake” listed as an option, and I couldn’t resist. It arrived, and to my disappointment, it was basically German chocolate cake; good, but not pie, so I did regret that one.

First course

Appetizer and main course, eaten simultaneously

Not pie

There was a delightful highlight in that while I was waiting, a very New Yorky woman in a leopard-print knit schmatta was trying to order something to go, but being very demanding about it. She apparently usually orders the kale salad. I know this because she repeated it about a dozen times in the ten minutes it took her to order whatever the hell she ended up with. She kept complaining that she usually ordered the kale salad, and that it cost “X” amount, and this was roughly the same price, so why wasn’t the total the same, because she usually orders the kale salad and that’s how it all works. She finally got the order to her liking, then started to ask if she could get a discount on the final price (I guess it was more than what the kale salad costs … ). It got to the point where the poor waiter had to bring in a relief pitcher of a manager to deal with the woman. When she was finally done (and I’m not exaggerating about the ten minutes this all took), the guy next to me sympathized with the manager, who remarked about how this happens “every day.” Whether it’s with this particular woman, I have no idea.

After that, it was home to do a bit of packing (which really meant reorganizing stuff from one suitcase to another), then some television and bed. Beth had gone to see Anastasia because Ramin Karimloo, her musical theatre crush, was playing the villain, but she was appalled at how bad the show was and, since there were so many people at the stage door, the actors weren’t taking photos, just autographing programs. She managed to position herself in back of some short people and handed her programs over them, being successful twice.

Stolen from Beth's page. Damned if that looks like "Ramin Karimloo" to me

Since I had to get up early in anticipation of the actual arrival of the cleaning woman, I turned in a little early and had my last night on the World’s Hardest Bed.

*I might if you promise not to frow up