Every day is like another

Days 9 and 10: Friday, February 24 and Saturday February 25

I’ve slipped in keeping this updated, but things have been simultaneously chockablock with events and nothing of note occurring.

Friday was going to be a special day in that, since we were meeting here at the apartment, I could sleep late (since I didn’t have to walk up to 29^th Street). We did another five hours of table work, which made me feel simultaneously on the right track and that I have no idea what I’m doing.

One of the things I wanted to work on in the original run was to get a sense of Beckett’s stillness. This is especially challenging for me in that I tend to act big, with a lot of gestures and taking up a lot of space—which is, more or less, the opposite of Sam. Over this last week, we’ve been working on paying strict attention to punctuation and finding that stillness (in me; it’s different for Andre), and I feel like I’m not doing anything at all, and, in the process, being completely boring. Finding that middle ground—of doing “nothing” while still being interesting is eluding me.

I walked away from the table work feeling like I had accomplished a lot, but not really knowing what that “lot” was. Suddenly, the luxury of what seemed like too much rehearsal is turning into nowhere near enough. ‘Twas ever thus, I guess …

That I got to sleep in was a bonus in that, for whatever reason (being shut up in a dark room for prolonged periods?), I tend to doze off at plays. Not all of them, but at more than I’m comfortable having happen. It happened a little when I saw The Liar the other night; to the point where I didn’t realize that one actress was playing dual roles, so I was anxious to revisit what I’d missed.

The revisit turned out to be a good lesson in “too much, too soon.” As much as I enjoyed it the first time, a little bit of its luster had rubbed off. It was still fresh, spontaneous, and funny; just not as much as it had been.

After the show, I headed for a pizzeria Beth had recommended that somehow managed to combine very good food and no other customers. It was (and is) “just down the block” (maybe a half a mile) and when I walked in, it was indeed almost empty; just one couple at a table and another at the bar.

The restaurant itself has an odd shape; sort of the dogleg to the left. The waitress/bartender told me to seat myself anywhere, and I did, sitting at the two-top where the room angled back. As I did, she came back to tell another staffer that she was done serving one of the two couples in the place; that they were already drunk and had to go to Williamsburg. I couldn’t tell which couple she meant; the one farther back in the place that were sitting quietly, or the one noisy ones at the bar yelling enthusiastically in Spanglish, but I had my suspicions. The former pairing left soon enough, which left the other duo to continue its small-scale partying. Whether it was that they were tired, inebriated, or just done, they soon left, basically leaving the place to me and my Sicilian pizza. (“Sicilian” in this case meaning “square” with the crust forming a vertical framing for the rest of the pie. This should not be confused with lasagna-like cheese-and-sauce delivery devices Chicagoans imagine is pizza; this was actually quite tasty.)

Pizza

Not pizza

After I finished the meal, I got the bill and automatically got my card ready, but (as is my wont) checked the bill to make sure that what I’d ordered was what I was paying for. Normally, the tallies match, but in this case, it didn’t, having little relation to what I’d actually ordered. I went up to the counter and told the server, and she apologetically tried to correct it in the register, but since the system had been closed for the day, she had to get someone (a manager? The owner?) from the rear who did what she could to correct it. It ultimately was a difference of only three dollars (in my favor), but it was the principal of the thing. While I was signing the receipt, though, they discussed that “Bugsy,” who’d had the previous shift, had left the drawer $92 short—and, apparently, that was not an uncommon occurrence. I fear for Bugsy’s future employment, but have not been able to pursue updates in the intervening time.

Saturday, we once again rehearsed here in the apartment, which meant I was able to sleep in again, which is always a benefit. Gino (our playwright) dropped by and (once again) listened without watching, which is almost as intimidating as having him watch closely. He did give me some insights into his thoughts on the character, though, so I was grateful for that.

The weather all day was tetchy, varying between downpours of rain and threatening skies. In the evening, I was supposed to head uptown to see The Great Comet (nee Natasha and Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812), and had planned to walk. When I would have left, though, there were torrents of rain, so I realized I was going to have to take the subway. By the time I left, though, the skies were clear again, so I shrugged my shoulders and wished I’d left earlier, as it wouldn’t have mattered. When I got off the subway in midtown, though, it was raining in Biblical proportions, so it was just as well I hadn’t attempted the walk.

I had seen the show previously in its Kazino incarnation; that is to say, in a tent in a vacant lot on 46^th Street (a lot where, in earlier times, the late lamented Barrymore’s stood with a couple of other theatre bars). The lot has been empty for years now, though rumor has it that the Shuberts are planning on building a state-of-the-art theatre there.

As with Come From Away, I was leery before I saw the show, but was blown away by it. It’d be a great show regardless, but the immersive staging by Rachel Chavkin takes it to another level. What promised to be the highlight for me this time, though, was not just sitting onstage, but (as it turned out) pretty much dead-center stage. (The on-stage set is raked, so that I was almost on a level with the front of the balcony.) In choosing a seat, I really had to guess what might be good, but whenever I get a chance to sit onstage, I take it; I mean, you never know when you’re going to get the chance. That said, I really don’t think there’s a bad seat for this one; there are things we saw from the stage that the people in the orchestra didn’t/couldn’t, but I have no doubt there were equally as many moments that we couldn’t see. One thing I did notice (and which surprised me) was, in looking out at the house, I was surprised at how close audience members seemed. Even the back row of the balcony seemed to be virtually at arm's length, even when (from the opposite viewpoint) it seems miles away.

The view from my seat

Following the show, I went to Junior’s, as did (seemingly) the population of a small Midwestern town. In cases when I’m soloing there, I usually sit at the bar (the wait is much shorter), but in this case, even that involved waiting. I eventually was able to sit and got a pretty mediocre (and disappointing) turkey sandwich—if one can call a stack of turkey with no condiments on two slices of not-warm rye bread a "sandwich." I rescued it somewhat with the house mustard, but it didn’t do a lot of good. I was entertained, though, by the boob on my left (who tried being cute and clever when ordering, rather than being straightforward “I’ll take it with fries if it comes with it and will order them on the side if not” and asking for “yellow stuff” to go with his iced tea. The bartender/waiter was baffled, but I soundlessly passed him the sweetener tray, assuming he wanted Equal.) On my right were a couple who were apparently from out of town and trying to figure out the logistics of how a big-city restaurant works. I finished my meal and headed home for some blissful hours of sleep, knowing that, since we didn’t have rehearsal Sunday, I could get a super-sized order of sleep.