DISPARATE FUNNY ARCHETYPES

I haven't been to the Cup Cake in months.
It glitters with post holiday lights and gold garland strung lazily from the tin ceiling.

I like the Cup Cake and the block of stores that surround it. It is old timey America. There is community here.

It reminds me of Preston Sturges' "Miracle at Morgan's Creek". I just rented it. When I watched it, I luxuriated in the assortment of the American archetypes. I love films (and plays) that embrace the cultural mix in the United States, films and plays like "It's a Wonderful Life", (or recently) "Superior Doughnuts", (Judd Apatow's) "Forty Year Old Virgin" and even "I love You Man". They celebrate disparate, funny, archetypes, united by a chance (at having a go) in this country. It is heartwarming twee (to me).

So I'm in old timey New York. The cafe is often filled with writers, funny looking actors, and languid tourists.

I hobble through the entrance using two canes and greet Oliva who is already here.
We quickly get tea and coffee and sit on a wooden bench facing the large marble table.

Olivia looks lean and fashionable. Look at her graceful motor neurons as she attends to my tea.
(Maybe) she's nervous to see me. It's been six months. I have remained scary and anonymous, me and my fickle blog.
I'm not nervous. My system rarely experiences adrenaline, unless I'm about to fall.

We talk.

I'm having speech problems.
I wonder if this is disconcerting to Olivia but I don't let it stop me from blabbing away.
My thick articulation is kind of intriguing. (Look what happened to me!)

Olivia is busy in her life, full of projects and ideas. A food co-op, some writing, her house and family.

We talk about NYU. (We both worked with the playwriting department) Olivia as a director, me as an actor.
The department seems to be going through a down time, teachers not talking to each other, boring students.

I feel completely removed from the headiness of the striving theatre world.

Theatre is collaborative - cooperative - but it's also a power thing - who's got the ball?
I've tried to pay attention to that - but now - from where I'm sitting - I think - process wins over acclaim. I'd rather "do" than attend to who's got the ball. I've always felt I was a gifted performer. I did try to make my own work but mostly felt like I needed approval to move forward. I should have created my own work. My own writing. I wanted to be part of a collaborative group of artists. This can be joyful but ultimately disappointing. I worked toward that. I waited for that. I have regrets (now).

I tell Olivia that if I could do my life over, if I could get a "do over", I would do MORE, I would never wait for permission and I would steer clear of obstacles.

Olivia is surprised by my regrets.

"I've never know you to be like that. That's not how I've known you to be. "

(It's what I advised ... but not what I've done) I think.

We sip our tea and latte.

Olivia asks me questions about this blog.

"Why didn't you just lock up your bike and get a cab home (referring to a recent entry) instead of walking all that way?"

I try to remember that that entry but instead of thinking of myself, I think of Charlie, of poor Charlie Roberts.
I realize putting it in in a more fictional context makes it easier to elucidate.

"You mean why didn't CHARLIE just lock up his bike and get a cab home? Charlie couldn't lock up the bike and leave it there. The bike meant too much to Charlie. It was cold and he was tired. And he wasn't thinking clearly (maybe)."

We talk for nearly two hours. The cupcake is ideal for losing track of time. It's time to go.

We agree not to let another six months go by and then Olivia disappears out the front door onto the stagey street, the painterly backdrop off Port Authority behind her, her exit down ninth avenue, clearly visible from where I remain on the wooden bench.

I stare into space. The person sitting nearby notices my frozen gaze and offers her newspaper.

"I'm good. I've got a book... somewhere."

I dig out my brand new Kindle and read Middlemarch.

When I walk to the bathroom, Mike (the Cup Cake owner) watches me hobble past his expresso station.

"Whadja do? Break both your feet?"

"I would be thrilled If I had broken both my feet."

Mike laughs, "There's a guy who came in here every day for six months on crutches. Sat in the back with his laptop. Wrote a play. They produced it around the corner and he's in DC right now with a production of that same play."

"Cool".

This is what I will do (I think). I will cab to the Ninth Avenue, hobble my way into the Cup Cake and write... (a play? some story? this blog?) and luxuriate in the the cast of disparate, funny, archetypes.