November 7 – Day 62: “That’s All There Is; There Isn’t Any More”

(Today’s title comes courtesy of Ethel Barrymore, who used the line to let her audiences know the curtain calls were over.)

 I get the feeling that, if a person crossed Ethel Barrymore, they'd get this look.

I got to sleep pretty late Tuesday night/Wednesday morning—as has become normal—though if I were to consider that I was probably still on East Coast time, it was really early (really early). I did fall asleep in the living room at one point, but stubbornly persevered until crazy late.

I didn’t have much on the schedule other than driving down to Mountain View to pick up my comics and then up to SF State to drop off my paperwork for teaching in the spring. (I’ve somehow gotten dropped out of their system, so even though I’m scheduled to teach, I have to—sort of—reapply.)

The oddest thing about the day was driving again. I’ve only been in a car three times since early September, and even though it is like riding a bike, it was still a little funny to be out there steering. Suffice it to say, I was not surprised to see that while Bay Area drivers haven’t gotten any better since I left, they’re still somehow better than Manhattan drivers. One of the things that drove me craziest in New York was how, while waiting to cross a street, I had to wait for drivers who were going just a hair too slowly and just a touch too far behind the driver in front of them. Get it together, people!

Even though I’d been buying some comics in New York, they were mainly titles I knew weren’t on my store subscription and that I didn’t want to miss, so when I got to the shop, there was still a tall stack to go through. I weeded out the ones I’d already bought or didn’t want, but it was still substantial (and since I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d bought in New York, there were some duplicates).

Driving to school, I discovered that trying to park on the street there on a school day is a fool’s errand. (Normally, I have my faculty pass and can park in the structure, but fortunate circumstances prevented me from teaching this term.) I finally found a 15-minute spot on the other end of campus from where I wanted to be, but thanks to walking quickly, I was able to make it back in time.

One of the challenges I faced all day was that the software in my new iPhone is too new to talk to the ancient (five year old!) software in my car, so I couldn’t use the Bluetooth feature to listen to podcasts. I tried listening to the radio for a while, but finally gave up, closed the windows, and turned up the phone as loud as it would go. The other challenge was my new car phone mount. While my old one had problems—the main one being its alarming tendency to fly off the dashboard at inopportune times—the new one had its own issues. It’s not made to fit the iPhone 8, and Mophie has stopped making models that attach to the dashboard, so I had to get one that attaches to the air vent, and all the air vents in my car are so low that, if I’m looking at a map to see where I’m supposed to be going, I have to take my eyes off the road and look way down, which is not ideal.

After a day of wrestling with it, I realized that I could put the charging part of the new mount on the base of the old one and use glue to hold the base to the dashboard, so it’s much safer. I still had the problem of the phone not talking to the car, though, but I couldn’t tell if it was a phone problem or a car problem. Checking the websites (and consulting customer service) for both Hyundai and Apple gave me no insight, but the likeliest solution seemed to be uploading new software for the car’s sound system, a process that was supposed to take something like four hours, including 30-40 minutes with the car running while it uploaded the new program (“Do not run the car indoors!,” the instructions helpfully warn).

I made an appointment with Hyundai to get the car upgraded, but when I took it in Friday morning, the mechanic was able to do it all in about five minutes (at no charge!), so I suddenly had a whole day free, even if it meant dealing with the awful smoke from the spate of brushfires in the state. (Pidge asked me to run the air purifier, but that meant closing the windows, and it became really hot and stuffy. I ran a fan, but it then got too cold. I ended up waiting until after dark to open one window.) Mophie is replacing my car mount (which is supposed to charge the phone while it’s docked, but doesn’t), so all my car/phone problems are solved. For now.

But none of that is why you called …

I really wanted to wrap this up by reflecting on the whole experience of the trip and the show. The thing that strikes me the most about it all is that, while I enjoyed living and working in New York, I most enjoyed the sense that I was doing something meaningful by being in this show at this time. Not meaningful for myself personally (well, in a sense, maybe …), but in our company telling that story and bring those issues about responsibility to ourselves and society that felt bigger than just us. I’ll grant that, in most cases, we were preaching to the converted (I mean, we were cheek-by-jowl with the both the Upper East and West Sides), but Vonnegut packed a lot into a relatively short novel.

When I was describing the story to people who were unfamiliar with it (most everyone knew Vonnegut—I guess Slaughterhouse Five gets assigned a lot in high schools—but not many people know Mother Night [and I almost always have to refer to it as Kurt Vonnegut’s Mother Night, or some people think I’m talking about Marsha Norman’s Night, Mother]), I always said it was about how far a good man can go in serving evil before he’s hopelessly compromised. While that’s only a part of what it’s about, I think I’d now amend that to “how much can a good person stand by and let evil prosper, and where do they draw the line before taking actual action?” In Mother Night, Howard W. Campbell, Jr. never really does take action—until the very end, by which time it’s way too late and everything has gone to hell around him—but keeps getting acted upon and being forced to deal with the messy consequences.

We knew going in that the play would have greater relevance in 2018 than it did in the original production, and more power playing in New York than in San Francisco (not that the Bay Area is either illiterate or apolitical), but I don’t think we realized how relevant it would really be. As I write this, I suddenly see some parallels with Chekhov (which I inevitably do with almost everything). Chekhov’s plays and stories are peopled almost entirely with characters who do nothing but moan about their sorry states, but who will take no action to better themselves or society. He never comes out and says it, but by showing these people, he’s challenging his readers and audiences to wake up and make the world a better place. Vonnegut’s doing a lot of the same thing; Campbell is passive and dragooned into various roles—propagandist, spy, husband—that he could use to make the world better, but chooses not to. Even when he does something positive (his wartime broadcasts from Berlin are full of hidden messages to spies and various underground movements, and while he knows the messages are there, he does nothing to crack the code), he’s absolutely passive in his reactions. It’s only at the very end, when it’s much too late, that he takes any action—and even that action is to take the passive way out and kill himself and end his messy life.

Now that I’m back at home with no shows on the horizon, I’m looking for a “real job” again, but I want that job to be meaningful and have impact. I don’t want to just manage online communities or sell things to people. I want to motivate myself (especially) and others to really do something. I know it won’t be easy (I have decades of built-in inertia), but that’s what I want to look for. I’d prefer it be in the arts, but I’m looking in other places.

One of the things I continually felt in New York is that I was part of an organism; that that city is more than just buildings, streets, and subways; it’s a living thing, and that feeling is what really motivates me when I’m there. When I’m at home, it virtually takes an act of Congress to get me out of my armchair or to walk more than a couple of blocks, but in Manhattan, I’ll happily walk three miles to get someplace because it feels like I’m going to see something or someone new and exciting. Pacifica? Not so much.

In the show, I got to work with some fabulous actors. Yes, I’ve worked with very good actors in San Francisco (and there are plenty of them here), but this group was special in their dedication to what we were doing. Yes, we bitched about two-show days, but I think we knew there was something special about what we were doing. Even when we had all those quiet audiences in the beginning, they stuck with us and took in what we had to say—and when we’d meet people on the street or in the diner who had seen it and been moved it, that was all the confirmation we needed (and it didn’t hurt that Vonnegut’s friend and daughter were affected). That kind of validation is worth of ton of indifference or negativity.

While in some ways, I feel like I haven’t been away at all, I keep running across things that show a sudden passing of time—a building site that’s well underway in spite of not even having been started when I left; the house next door suddenly having a new coat of stucco—and I realize that yes, I’ve been away. I’ve been asked what this experience was like compared to last year with Sam and Dede, and while I enjoyed that one immensely, I think I liked this one more. I was more familiar with the East Village, so I had a better sense of where to go and what to do. I felt I “blended in” more and was more of a New Yorker, and that I was really living there rather than just visiting town temporarily. The cast was bigger (obviously), so I got to expand my circle more and work with a diverse group—even if all of my scenes were with GG—and just generally had more fun. (Not that Sam wasn’t a blast to do.) Even if I went into tedious length in these posts, I said from the beginning that they were intended more for me and my memories than a reading public. Yes, I’m beyond grateful for anyone who’s taken any part of this journey with me, but—to be honest—you’re not why I did it. (Though if it’s motivated anyone to do something with their lives, I’ve succeeded on some level. That said, I don’t know that any play—or blog—has ever motivated anyone to do anything other than want to work in the performing arts, but we at least make the effort.)

I’m intensely grateful to Brian and Leah at Custom Made for casting me initially and letting me continue with the show; to the Isenbergs (“always the Isenbergs”) and Jay Yamada for producing, to the staff at 59E59, who make everything so easy, and especially to GG, Trish, Eric, Andi, Matt, and Dared for being so great to hang and work with; they’re all gems and I hope to work with them all again someday.

Most of all, as I expressed on Facebook, and never do enough in person, I’m grateful to Pidge for her tolerance and selflessness in letting me pursue this crazy dream. As recently as three years ago, I would never have guessed I’d get the chance to do one show—let alone two—off-Broadway, and that I was able to do it at all is due to her.

I thank you all for coming on the ride with me and I hope that, someday, there’s a part three and that my writing improves enough to make it worth reading. I don’t think this is the end for Mother Night. I don’t know what the next step is, but I feel like there is one.

Humbly, I remain Your Obedient Servant.