Didi and Gogo walk into a restaurant ...

Day 43: Friday, March 31

In contrast to Thursday, Friday was pretty crappy all day, weather-wise, which was not a propitious beginning to the final weekend of shows.

I knew I wanted to update the blog, but didn’t really feel like doing it from the bedroom again, so (in spite of the rain) I lugged my laptop to Tompkins Street Bagels and got a bagel and tea and a table in the back. I normally would have sat at the window, but the counter isn’t big enough to accommodate my laptop and, the weather being so bad, there wasn’t a lot to look at.

I typed away happily, even though the woman next to me kept sneezing and coughing, to the point where I feared catching a cold. (Knock wood; I haven’t yet, but I’m still here another 24 hours.)

Eventually, I made my way back home and rested up for the evening. I was hoping to walk up to the theatre, but the weather was just too dicey. I arrived reasonably early, mainly because I wanted to go over my punctuation and pauses.

The show went pretty well. There were the usual glitches, which we were sure to post-mortem in the dressing room afterward, but nothing horrific. It might not have been as good for us as Thursday was, but the audience was very good and laughed at all the right places—and some unusual ones. It was nice.

I took my time after the show. I was kind of wanting to linger and not let matters go, so I organized all the leftover food from my gift baskets, looked at the script, and generally took my time. I never wanted to know in advance if anyone I knew was in the audience, but was delighted to go out afterward. (If you did come and didn’t stick around after the show, I generally didn’t know.) I had popped out briefly, just to see if anyone was there, but didn’t recognize anyone, so I knew I could take my time.

I came down the stairs to the bar level and saw a man and a woman sitting on the bench. He said something to me that sounded like it was referring to the show, so I assumed they’d seen it and wanted to congratulate me. I responded in a Sam-like manner, and he said something else (I wish I could remember more of this, but I was so gobsmacked by what was to come to do so) and I was taken a little aback. He finally said something to the effect of “You don’t know who we are.” I suppose the “proper” thing to do in such a situation is to play along and say “of course!” and hope I can catch up, but I said, “No, I don’t.” He gave me some hints that let me to remember the production of Equus we had done in the summer of 1978, and I suddenly realized who it was under the accumulated 40 years of aging (like I’m a spring chicken). 

He then turned to his companion, whom I did actually sort of recognize, but wasn’t sure it was who I thought it was—and whom it turned out to be. Back in 1981, I had a long-distance romance of a sort with a woman with whom I’d done summer theatre (same place where I did Equus; just different years, though these two—John and Meg—had met the following year). It did not go well. I take full responsibility for the breakup in that I was an asshole and behaved badly. I tried to stay friendly with her, but in response to a letter of mine, she said “Please don’t write me anymore; when I see your name, I get cranky.”)

I wrote the relationship off (I mean, even I’m not that stupid to have tried to continue it), but once a year or so, I’d Google her just to see what she was up to. I wasn’t stalking her; I had no intention of contacting her; I just wondered, as one does.

Well, about two months ago, out of the blue, she followed me on Twitter. Needless to say, I was taken aback, but followed her back (as protocol calls for) and maintained radio silence.

So, after all that, here she was, and I was, as I said, gobsmacked. Of all people to see, she was the last I’d have ever expected—even moreso than him. We chatted for a good half-hour about  the show, what we’d been up to since the 80s, what had happened to people we’d known in the dark ages, and other things. Eventually, John had to go (he had to catch a train to Westchester), but Meg and I went for a drink. The options near the theatre are limited, but I remembered that the bar we’d been to for my birthday had been reasonably quiet (and cheap, by UES standards), so we went there.

In the event, it was pretty loud (I don’t understand the point of a deejay playing loud music in a small bar where there is no space for dancing; it forces the patrons to speak louder, which causes the music level to go up, which causes the patrons to have to speak even louder), but it wasn’t intolerable. We each had a Manhattan, then split a dish of mac ‘n’ cheese (which was far better than I’d remembered from my birthday, but I was very much the worse for alcohol that night), then she caught a cab to Penn Station to head home to Pennsylvania.

It was a surprising and surprisingly pleasant evening. It’s generally good to see people with whom I have an old relationship like that, and it’s even better when it’s so unexpected.

Despite the mac ‘n’ cheese, I was still hungry and was determined to try a fried chicken place I’d seen on Yelp (there was another one near the barbecue place from the other night, but it was much lower rated), even though it was way south in SoHo. It was near the F, though, and was open until 2:00, so I decided to give it a shot. The chicken turned out to be good, but the trip was worth it if only for the inadvertent entertainment provided by the staff.

 

It was still a nasty evening; wet, misty, and cold, but I got there about 1:20 am, which would seem to be plenty of time. I walked in and the host stepped up to greet me. I asked if I could still order. He told me I could, but I’d have to do it from the bar. That was no trouble. I sat down and the be-tattooed bartender said hello, gave me a menu, then asked what I wanted to drink. I said I needed a moment and he went away.

He came back, greeted me, asked if I had a menu, then asked what I wanted to drink. I gave him my food order (the three-piece bucket of chicken and a buttermilk biscuit), then asked for a pale ale. They had two on draft, so he described them, and I ordered one. He stepped away, then came back and asked me what I wanted to drink. I told him, he said “Right!” and stepped away again. Suddenly, a waitress was there with my bucket—with four pieces of chicken. The bartender came back, and I fully expected him to ask me what my drink order was again, but this time, he had the Mason jar full of beer.

The chicken was good; very crispy crust, juicy meat, and I gobbled it up. The beer was okay and really didn’t go with the chicken, but it was good enough.

Sometime during my meal, a guy in a baseball cap came in and sat two stools away. He asked the bartender if he could still get food, and the answer was that he could get something to go, but not to eat in. (This struck me as odd, but I guess it was just that they wanted to be able to close on time.) The bartender gave him a menu and walked away. He came back a moment later and asked they guy if he wanted to order anything. He did (all I heard was three orders of something involving Brussels sprouts). The bartender disappeared.

The guy next to me took off his cap and waited. The bartender came back and greeted the guy as though he were a new customer, asking him what he could get him. The guy said he’d just ordered. The bartender claimed that he didn’t recognize him without the hat. The guy took it in stride and gave the bartender his credit card to pay for the order. The bartender walked away, then came back with the receipt.

A few moments later, the guy put his cap back on, and you can guess what happened. Yes, the bartender didn’t recognize him. They went through the same routine (“I just ordered” “I didn’t recognize you”) and he continued to wait.

In the meantime, I’d finished my food and was ready to go. It took forever to get the check from the bartender, but it came eventually—and I was sure to verify that it was indeed mine—and I paid and bundled up to leave. The staff was busily going about their side work and closing tasks, but nothing kitchen-related seemed to be going on. When I left, the guy was still waiting for what sounded like a small order after at least fifteen minutes. I’m convinced the order was never actually put in, even though he was charged for it.

For all I know, he’s still there, waiting.

It was the most Beckettian soul food restaurant one could imagine.

I left, walked the mile or so home in the crappy weather, then fell asleep in anticipation of the final performance day.