Communication

Now that I'm truly living in my own house and not running amok, it occurred to me that I need to be more conscientious about spending. I've been cooking as often as I can and I've managed to get breakfast and late-night after-show dinners covered. It's now all about the meal between matinee and evening performances on two-show days.

Which brought me to thinking about alternative entree courses that can last a week because I may soon tire of my usual pot of spaghetti.

I made a wonderful batch of smoked turkey legs last year. Easy to make, doesn't take too long.

Off to the grocery store I went scouring the meat section for turkey legs. As usual, the store had everything else a butcher can package, but no turkey legs. Since this has been the case every time I've gone, I decided to consult about the matter a young butcher, probably in his early 20's.

"Sir, do you carry smoked turkey legs?"

"Um, no," the man said. "We don't carry them."

"Now is it that you're just out of them or is it that you don't carry them ever?" I asked, reluctant to believe that a grocery store as large and stocked as Pathmark never carries something so basic.

"No we don't carry them at all," he said. He then added, "I've never seen them at least."

"Well, okay, thanks."

Maybe the bemused look on my face forced him to reconsider, because the next thing out of his mouth floored me.

"We have smoked drumsticks, though. But I think we're out right now..."

Wow.

I am so excited that every day I turn on my television there is news about Coretta's passing, Coretta's living, Coretta's legacy, Coretta's works. It does my heart joy to know that her ceremony is televised. This one below looks like it could be the usual fwd seeping with altruism, but you know I like to do true stories on here...

Tribute

I had just pressed through the turnstile at the G train station closest to my house and the indicator on the marquee had gone off, alerting those of us with options that the downtown train would approach momentarily. So with my usual momentum, I sped to the stairs leading to the depths of the platform when I saw an elderly woman with irascibility springing from her parka begin her too-slow descent. I quickly analyzed: she would be evil if I said the wrong thing; if provoked she had enough spite to ruin an entire day, and most importantly she was going to miss the train.

I struggled. I wasn't in that big a hurry and I would feel appropriately guilty watching from my seat on the G train as she snailed down the stairs, even though there would certainly be another train in minutes. Meanwhile I would go to hell.

Carefully, I used more thought power than I had to construct the approach. "Excuse me, would you like some help?"

There are ramifications. Had I used "Ma'am" she might have been pissed - this wasn't the South and she may not have wanted to be reminded that she's older than me. Miss wasn't going to work for opposite reasons. Realize that had I asked "Do you need some help?" she may have said no, gotten a little salty perhaps, even though she was old enough to understand that my intention was still honorable. The phrasing was important. And if Carribean blood ran underneath the tenacious grip of independence old folks can wield (don't we all know it), I was doomed.

Fortunately, she smiled a dignified Coretta Scott smile and thanked me for my help. We made the train, and I was careful not to usher her too forcefully beyond its closing doors (read: I hoped the conductor saw what was going on instead of defaulting to routine).

Let's not get it twisted, I was still worn out. But at the end of the day, she was somebody's grandmother, somebody's mother, somebody's aunt, and she was old enough to have earned the right to require so much work.

Catch-Up

It was a beautiful December.

First the weather performed stunts. Some days I walked out of my house wishing I had thrown the hoody over the sweater before putting on a leather coat. Other days I ran around with a backpack crammed with extraneous scarves and furry hats I had no use for.

The schedule was pretty consistent though: Tuesday through Saturday shows every night, Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday matinees totaling eight shows a week. Rehearsals on Tuesdays which can only be scheduled for management (I’m one of the dance captains so that included me) and anyone new to the show, in this case Nettie. Thursday and Fridays were rehearsal days devoted to preparing the first set of understudies to cover any of the lead parts.

Of course folks came to visit me and see the show, my only condition a promise that guests would not attempt to make me believe that their urgency for purple was more about my being in it rather than just a general curiosity and excitement about seeing the story told on Broadway. They all laughed and complied. At one point I had a couple in from Atlanta, another friend in from Vegas, and my cousin Rosalyn shortly thereafter. The following weekend add Ryan subtract the others. A week later add a paternal cousin who we dragged out to a New Year’s Eve party only so that someone could steal money from her bag, but we’ll get to that later.

Somewhere in there we endured the MTA strike that, necessary as it was, meant a two-hour commute to work in a cab every day. The show went right on, theater-goers unbothered and completely ready for Celie and Nettie, transportation be damned. Then there were the tracking issues that we did not have an opportunity to map out coming to face us in any event. You know, worse case scenarios like two women dancers being out at the same time when there is only one swing. I remember sitting in a cab on the Manhattan Bridge having an entire conversation with my partner in crime (the other dance captain) about how we were going to cover two tracks with one person.

It was insane to say the least. But we persevered.

Our holidays became part of the four days we get off each month. There was an endurance stretch of 15 shows back to back at one point; we survived them. We worked Christmas Eve and Thanksgiving Eve. We worked the days following those holidays. I suffered with the sudden realization one day that I would continue to have only four days off each month indefinitely (the managed in presales packed houses for all weekends through November of 2006, nevermind expected walk-ups and last minute ticket purchasers).

Panic.

But I’m okay. I’m employed with a hit show on Broadway. My body is doing well. My voice sounds fabulous – okay okay you can call out my hyperboles on your own blog-page.

The New Year started with two days off. Ryan and my cousin went home happy campers despite the theft at the New Year’s Eve Party we attended. Someone apparently picked my cousin, a likely tourist, to rip off to the tune of a couple hundred bucks. I felt horrible – her first time in New York and she gets violated. Needless to say I reimbursed her for it. She insists that it wasn’t my fault and that I didn’t owe her that money and she’s probably right. But when you’re hosting family and you think your party choice is ideal, it’s hard to avoid wanting to fix it.

Are we caught up? Well, not quite. There are the numerous stories about magic moments of live theater that this show hardly gets reprieve from, soon to come to this page. There are the stories of the thousands of people who ordinarily would not make it to a musical; our swings report how folks come with their tickets to the building with O’s name all over it and, confronted with several doors to the inside of house, ask “Which door do we go into?” because they don’t realize that this isn’t the movies with several theaters. “The Wiz” and “The Lion King” and “The Odd Couple” are not also playing at The Broadway Theater.

Or my all-time favorite: the report of the family full of folks who sat in the box seats in the mezzanine and pulled out an entire bucket of chicken during the Overture before the first act.

Let’s just end with that. Let’s stay right there for a minute…a bucket of chicken in the theater.