Day 29: Friday, March 17
I have to admit something that I’ve told very few people. For the last 30
years, St. Patrick’s Day has been fraught for me. Not that I was ever the kind
of guy who went out and drank copious amounts of green beer (in fact, I don’t
think I ever did that); it’s just that my mother died on the 17th
(the day before my birthday), so ever since then, both days have had a shadow
over them.
In years past, there was always a mental vibe on my birthday; it was a day
that just felt different. (I actually had some of that vibe last week the day
before the snowstorm. As Pidge and I were walking to the restaurant, and between
the lighting and atmospheric conditions and the general lack of traffic, it
felt like the eve of some holiday.) Since 1987, though, both days have just
been days in late winter in March. Nothing out of the ordinary. As such, I was
kind of depressed and down all morning, The combination of that and the
impending departure of Pidge kind of put a pall over the morning.
Given the general atmosphere in this neighborhood on weekends so far, I was
a little dubious as to how the whole evening would go down, once I got back
from the show. Beth had heard that the East Village is sort of Party Central on
St. Patrick’s Day, so I was expecting the worst.
As usual, I decided to walk to the theatre, and was unsurprised to see any
number of people who had gotten an early start on the weekend and were already
pretty inebriated. (They were, coincidentally, dressed in the brightest greens
and wearing the most faux-Irish accoutrements. Given that, it was pretty easy
to tell who’d be getting the drunkest that night. I have no actual way of
measuring the results of this impression, though.)
The show went pretty well; nothing out of the ordinary that I recall. It
turned out that an old friend from Yahoo was in the audience that night, so we
got to speak afterward. I was genuinely touched that he’d come. After that, I
was in no hurry to get back home, so I had a drink at the bar at the theatre
for a scotch (something I don’t normally drink, but they have a great
selection) and ended up having a discussion with one of the kids (and I use the
term advisedly) in the show next door. That cast in mostly young and full of enthusiasm
and energy that hasn’t been beaten out of them yet. As such, they tend to warm
up loudly in the common hallway and shout at each other right outside our door.
Being the old coot that I am, this generally irritates me to no end, but I also
figure they’ll get it out of their systems soon enough.
As I meet them, though, they are nice people and their show sounds
interesting. They play the whole thing as an auction of paintings. They give
the audience “money” to bid on art, and it’s a whole environmental thing.
Because of this, the running time can vary; some nights, they’re done as we
come out, others, they’re still in there, We, of course, are as quiet as mice,
so as not to disturb their show, and even though they have an intermission
during our show, there’s yet to be anything that disrupts us.
After the chat, I decided to walk home. It was a nice enough night and I figured I wouldn't run into too many drunks on Park Ave. I decided I wanted to get some tea, so I was going to stop at the Starbucks in Grand Central (the only one really convenient to me that would be open), but when I went to the food level, I couldn't find it. I did find the Shake Shack there, though, so I got in a long and slow line and eventually ordered (why menus at these places so baffle the customers never ceases to amaze me), ate standing up, then took the subway home.
As it turned out—and I don’t know if this was due
to the weather or just luck—the neighborhood actually seemed a little quieter
than usual—especially the Irish bar down the block that had had the horrific
blues band a few nights before.
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