On Making Off: Misadventures Off-Off Broadway Read Online Free
Author: Randy Anderson
thinking skills, my “artistic sensibilities,” if you will. I could feel my identity shifting to a different kind of person. And while I wouldn’t mind being this person, it was not the person I truly wanted to be. That is not a subtle difference. Either I was tired or I identified with Bobby’s desire for a change of direction, but the next day, something I saw moved me off the path toward a nice life and back on the path toward a full life.
After work, I headed down to the Village to meet some friends at a bar for beer and baseball. I didn’t watch much baseball before moving to New York. But there’s something about the teams and the fans in New York that makes it irresistible.
The subway moved slower than usual, and I preoccupied myself with how mad I was at the F train for making me late. Being mad at a late train is a futile exercise at which I excelled. New Yorkers alternate between Zen Buddhists and five-year-old brats when it comes to stalled or slow trains. On this particular day, I was a five-year-old. The train finally arrived at my station and I rushed to the exit. As I passed through the turnstile and headed up the stairs, I fell back from the putrid-sweet smell of stale pee on the platform. You smell a lot more pee in New York. You smell a lot more of everything in New York. I hurried to the surface and let the fresh air clean my nostrils.
Erasing the memory of the smell, I lit a cigarette and walked down Eighth Street. As I passed the window shoppers and summer students, I caught sight of a beggar. There wasn’t anything particularly different about this beggar. Probably 10 years older than me, he was about my height and weight. His clothes were worn-looking, but they didn’t appear soiled. He was holding out a wrinkled paper coffee cup trying to get the attention of each passerby. Something about him—his demeanor, his sincerity, maybe it was his humanity—had captured my imagination and compelled me to stop and watch.
He looked familiar to me somehow, and I continued to stare at him. I felt a little self-conscious for standing there gawking, but I couldn’t help myself. The longer I observed, the more I realized nobody was making eye contact with him. Most people acted as if they hadn’t seen him at all.
But they had.
And that was where the magic happened. I took note of everyone’s reactions. Guilt and disgust were common. Sometimes, people would smile, not maliciously, but as if they were rejoicing in what they had. I saw relief, but I couldn’t tell if it was relief they had made it past yet another beggar unscathed, or relief that they were not the ones begging. Everyone reacted. Even if their reaction was not to react, they had to expend some energy to do so. I watched them try to suppress their emotions. But the most fascinating aspect was that their reactions were never about the beggar but about themselves. Hate, fear, guilt, sorrow, pain, joy—all these emotions were sparked by the sight of the beggar, but the fuel was contained in the hearts of the viewers. And as they passed, they were changed. It was as if they walked into a cloud, only to emerge with white dust clinging to their hair, faces, and clothes, cloaking them in some new truth. Right then, I knew: I want to make theater that does that!
Looking for my own truth, I walked over and dropped five dollars into his cup.
“ Thank you!” I said, imagining I was being cloaked in a beggar’s fairy dust. I continued walking, peeking back, thinking he was some apparition that would magically disappear. But he didn’t. He never disappeared. When I turned the corner, he was still there. Five innings and four beers later, I could still see him. That beggar was etched into my mind’s eye, and that fairy dust was for real. His presence had clarified my desire. I wanted to create the beggar’s effect. That was the kind of theater I wanted to do. That was the kind of impact I wanted my art to have. That was the kind of life I
After work, I headed down to the Village to meet some friends at a bar for beer and baseball. I didn’t watch much baseball before moving to New York. But there’s something about the teams and the fans in New York that makes it irresistible.
The subway moved slower than usual, and I preoccupied myself with how mad I was at the F train for making me late. Being mad at a late train is a futile exercise at which I excelled. New Yorkers alternate between Zen Buddhists and five-year-old brats when it comes to stalled or slow trains. On this particular day, I was a five-year-old. The train finally arrived at my station and I rushed to the exit. As I passed through the turnstile and headed up the stairs, I fell back from the putrid-sweet smell of stale pee on the platform. You smell a lot more pee in New York. You smell a lot more of everything in New York. I hurried to the surface and let the fresh air clean my nostrils.
Erasing the memory of the smell, I lit a cigarette and walked down Eighth Street. As I passed the window shoppers and summer students, I caught sight of a beggar. There wasn’t anything particularly different about this beggar. Probably 10 years older than me, he was about my height and weight. His clothes were worn-looking, but they didn’t appear soiled. He was holding out a wrinkled paper coffee cup trying to get the attention of each passerby. Something about him—his demeanor, his sincerity, maybe it was his humanity—had captured my imagination and compelled me to stop and watch.
He looked familiar to me somehow, and I continued to stare at him. I felt a little self-conscious for standing there gawking, but I couldn’t help myself. The longer I observed, the more I realized nobody was making eye contact with him. Most people acted as if they hadn’t seen him at all.
But they had.
And that was where the magic happened. I took note of everyone’s reactions. Guilt and disgust were common. Sometimes, people would smile, not maliciously, but as if they were rejoicing in what they had. I saw relief, but I couldn’t tell if it was relief they had made it past yet another beggar unscathed, or relief that they were not the ones begging. Everyone reacted. Even if their reaction was not to react, they had to expend some energy to do so. I watched them try to suppress their emotions. But the most fascinating aspect was that their reactions were never about the beggar but about themselves. Hate, fear, guilt, sorrow, pain, joy—all these emotions were sparked by the sight of the beggar, but the fuel was contained in the hearts of the viewers. And as they passed, they were changed. It was as if they walked into a cloud, only to emerge with white dust clinging to their hair, faces, and clothes, cloaking them in some new truth. Right then, I knew: I want to make theater that does that!
Looking for my own truth, I walked over and dropped five dollars into his cup.
“ Thank you!” I said, imagining I was being cloaked in a beggar’s fairy dust. I continued walking, peeking back, thinking he was some apparition that would magically disappear. But he didn’t. He never disappeared. When I turned the corner, he was still there. Five innings and four beers later, I could still see him. That beggar was etched into my mind’s eye, and that fairy dust was for real. His presence had clarified my desire. I wanted to create the beggar’s effect. That was the kind of theater I wanted to do. That was the kind of impact I wanted my art to have. That was the kind of life I
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