One summer I worked for the DeCordova art museum in Lincoln Massachusetts during their Strokes of Genius exhibit. This exhibit was an eighteen hole playable miniature golf course designed by eighteen respected New England sculptors.

My job: security guard.

If you've ever met me, that's kind of funny. I am a spectacled man standing about five feet, seven inches and back then I weighed about a hundred and thirty pounds. But my job mostly consisted of telling people where the restrooms were and nicely asking kids to stop crawling over the exhibits. Easy.

It was a very memorable summer. I fell madly in love with the receptionist--a blond neurotic beauty from Brown University who would soon attend grad school in Philadelphia. I became friends with a man in his fifties who told me some amazing stories about his life. (Looking back, I'm fairly sure he was an habitual liar.)

I met a Russian man named Vlad, a recent imigrant who had once taught Literature in Russia, but since he spoke very little English he had to work a job like mine. He was often in danger of losing his job because he had a hard time telling people where the bathrooms were. We covered for him whenever possible. After spending a summer working with Vlad, I wrote him a letter from college. He wrote back a letter that his daughter helped him write. In the letter he said something to the effect of "my daughter translated your letter for me. She tells me that it's very well written, and that you're probably a talented communicator. I never knew. Good for you."

Two things having to do with women stand out in my memory.

One was Cathy--the blond from Brown. Unfortunately she was involved with another man, a medical student. I never pursued her aggressively. I did, however, follow her around like a puppy and talk her ear off. Looking back, it's obvious that she maintained some kind of attraction for me, but her boyfriend, our age difference and our different social backgrounds were large obstacles for her. At that point in my life I didn't believe in romantic obstacles so I couldn't see this.

I remember fantasizing about taking her up to the roof of the museum. It was, at the time, the most beautiful place I'd ever seen--a panorama of lush treetops, hills dotted with sculptures, and a deep blue lake, all from the top of what resembled a castle. In this fantasy, I kissed her. In reality, when I did take her to the roof of the museum, there was some awkward silence and a cool breeze. And Cathy got worried that we weren't supposed to be there. I always knew that I was not capable of kissing this nervous, taken woman. We went back downstairs.

One humid summer morning, Vlad and I were setting up for the caterers who would be there in a few hours when there was a sudden downpour. Vlad and I luckily could move from the museum to our tent and back again without getting wet because the tent was attached to the back of the museum. The folks outside viewing the sculpture park were not so lucky, and while Vlad and I went into the museum to grab some chairs, a soaking wet couple ran under our tent, assuming that no one was using it. They crossed to the other side of the tent and looked out over the hills. Vlad and I, silent as usual since we rarely understood each other, came back into the tent and set our chairs down. The couple had no idea we were behind them. On our way back into the museum, the woman, who was wearing a very light sun-dress began to peel her saturated clothing from her body, and before I could decide whether or not I should look away, she had peeled the entire dress up above her waist to ring it out. And further more, she was wearing no underwear. And further more, I was twenty one. I almost fell over.

It was probably only the second live naked ass I'd ever seen. Vlad just smiled a very cool smile and we went back inside. After we came out again, she noticed us, and leaned against her boyfriend and laughed very hard. They looked really happy.

Vlad and I never wrote again and I don't know how he's doing--or even his last name.

My lying friend in his fifties, whose name I can't remember told me that Cathy would "marry the doctor", that I had no chance with her. I was fond of being obsessive and ambitious back then so I told him "no way. She's gonna marry me." He admired my pluck, but he cooly disagreed.

A few weeks after school had started, I was drunk at a local bar with some friends, telling the story of Cathy and me, how our friendship had gotten closer and closer, how her relationship with The Doctor had gotten more and more unstable, but that I "did nothing. And now she's in Philadelphia going to grad school." Somehow, I moved my friends with my story and a few hours later we were on the road from Fitchburg, Massachusetts to Philadelphia. Our mission: I was going to tell her how I really felt about her.

It started as all spontaneous road trips start. We were laughing and shouting a lot. We couldn't believe we were doing it. We all had doubts but we didn't share them. And we drove eight hours and sobered up, and then it made no sense to complain because it would be a longer journey back. We reached Philadelphia early the next morning.

After about 10 am, and then every hour or so, I would pick up a payphone and call Cathy. I kept getting an answering machine. I left a couple of messages. We didn't sleep. We roamed the city. We wandered up and down South Street. One of our friends, Johnny, knew some people--Johnny knew some people wherever we went--and we visited with them. Then we would shop. We would eat at McDonalds.

We had been up for over 24 hours. Some of us were getting cranky with each other. It began to rain. We tried to take a nap in the car but couldn't. Finally I told my friends that I would try one more time and if she wasn't home again, we would leave. But I had made a promise to them that I was going to Philadelphia to confess my feelings to her. And my friends reminded me of that promise. I told them I'd be true to my word. "I'll confess it," I said. "At least I'll be leaving the message from the streets of Philadelphia."

I called. The phone rang. It rang again. I heard a click--the answering machine. I took a deep breath, and began to talk. When it was all over, I walked back to my friend Guy, and Guy hugged me and told me that he loved me. We had been up for so long, it just seemed like a really normal thing. So I hugged him back and returned his declaration. After all, it was true. I loved Guy like he was a brother.

The drive back was long. We had been awake for 36 hours. We had blown off classes and even a rehearsal for a play--the director was furious.

A few days went by, and I recieved a letter from Cathy.

Her letter was ambiguous. It encouraged and confused me--I think because what she was really saying was that she was confused. But she told me that she would come to Boston and we would spend a day together. In my mind, it sounded like some kind of audition, a chance to explore our friendship with this fact so out in the open. Would we begin to hold hands in the middle of the day and be kissing by nightfall? I thought about this Day often.

My show openned, and she took a bus to Boston to visit her boyfriend and see the opening of the show I was in--but at the time I didn't know this. The bus broke down on the way and she was delayed and it became impossible for her to make it to my show. When she arrived in Boston, her boyfriend became her fiance, partially because she decided that fate was trying to tell her to Marry The Doctor, and to stay away from me.

And she did. That was probably the only thing that my fifty year old friend said to me that was true. She did Marry The Doctor. I attended the wedding with another woman--one who broke my heart for real. And Guy would later come to hate me, though I'm still not sure why. The last time I went to the DeCordova museum, Guy was working there to my surprise, and he looked at me like I was someone I'm not.

And Johnny and I are out of touch. Years later, when I had moved to Chicago, Cathy would call me for advice, very upset, very lost; and all I'll say about that conversation is that I hung up understanding why that bus broke down if indeed it was fate, and I hung up feeling good about all I'd learned since I was twenty-one. I missed her, and I care about her, but there was nothing I could do for her.

If I knew back in 1995 what I know now, I would have waited patiently to meet Genevra with a few flings along the way. But then I'd have turned out a different person, and who knows what she would have thought of me, or I of her.

Bad things can be good. Bad things can be really important. And I wonder what terrible turns today will reveal themselves as blessings nine summers from now. And I wonder where Guy is, and Vlad and even the naked wet dress girl. They have contributed to this gift of a life. And for that I owe them all gratitude.

I do hope Cathy is doing well these days. Cathy, if you're out there, I hope you're feeling better.

The limping man is a slut. I am heartbroken. The other day I was walking with Genevra to the El. There appeared, finally, the limping man. I nudged her "there he is," I said. "The guy with the hat?" she asked. "Yes."

"Oh," she said. "That guy says 'hello' to me, too. I think he says hello to everyone." And then it happened.

A woman crossed in front of us as we stepped onto the crosswalk, and the limping man did the unspeakable. He said hello to the woman--not me. In one fell nod he devastated our relationship.

The limping man and I never had anything special. He's no more than a hello-slut.

I have neglected to mention that every day with an even more reliable regularity, I am greeted by a second man in front of the Western El station. I didn't mention this because he's a newspaper salesman. He sells the Tribune and a rag that the same company puts out called The Red Eye. He was the one whom I thought was the true hello-whore. And indeed, Limping Man does what he does because he just loves saying hello to strangers. Newspaper Man just wants to sell more newspapers. His hellos are advertisements--like dutch prostitutes in Amsterdam storefronts. I for one refuse to buy.

But now I do say 'hello' back. It took many months of him saying 'hello' to no avail before I finally returned the greeting, and it was probably because of the Limping Man...slut.

I have begun to wonder what Limping Man does. I am curious about where he is going with such regularity at that age. There is a huge congregation of Greeks who flock to the McDonalds in Lincoln Square almost every morning--though especially on weekends. I have wondered if Limping is Greek and heading to McDonalds to see his friends.

I am Greek--or rather half Greek from my father's side. Genevra and I sometimes go there for breakfast on the weekends and I listen for Greek words that I undertsand. The other day, I heard a Greek man slipping from English to Greek talking about gay marriage. He seemed displeased with the whole concept.

The Limping Man was not what he seemed. The Newspaper Man is probably not as friendly as he seems. And then there's all those Greeks at McDonalds, one of whom does not approve of gay marriage. What do these things have to do with each other?

Nothing, really...Nothing.

Next.

And so suddenly I'm the critic. I was at the theater all weekend watching over a hundred people audition for the Neo-Futurists. We'll be calling back about nine, casting two or three.

You see a lot of nice people trying really hard, and sometimes you can see so clearly that they're not where they belong, like the twenty-eight-year-old closeted waiter at a Chillies in an Oklahoma suburb. Everyone who walks into an audition is scared. Everyone is doing something that is very hard. But for some reason, all the cliches are true. You look at a person and fairly quickly you know they'll be right for the show. It only takes a few seconds, usually.

But then several hours later, the ensemble is arguing about who we will call back and why. This is my fifth round of auditions since I've joined the Company, and it seems all the struggles are essentially the same, and much anxiety is expressed over whether or not the right people are being called back, or more accurately, whether it is right to knock certain people out of consideration. In the end--and I think I'm alone on this one--I don't think it's possible to make a mistake.

The Buddhists believe that everyone you meet, you have met before in a previous life, that your relationship with them is defined by your relationship with them in your last life--down to the person you pass on the street or see on television. Lovers have been lovers before, or friends, brothers, sisters, mothers or fathers. The man who gives you the finger out his car window for no good reason was the man you splashed with mud as horses pulled your coach down that rainy cobble-stoned street in 1893. Why didn't you say you were sorry by the way?

I was talking to Genevra about this last night. She nodded and smiled. She doesn't think I'm crazy but she doesn't agree. She does not believe that the folks we're going to hire are essentually already cast, that we somehow can't help but hire them. (Everyone in the company would nod and smile at me if I shared that one.) To me, the arguing, the struggles, the philosophical differences, it is all a game that the universe is playing. Yes, most things can go lots of ways, but I think for something this important, for a relationship with so much karma-to-be, whomever we choose will be the right choice--even if they turn out to be complete assholes.

The El tracks rattle. Water bubbles from a pot. A man writes haikus.

Your worst day is someone's best day. Your audition is another person's lesson. You have spent your day well. You have spent your day poorly. No moment is planned. Every moment is planned. Nothing is a surprise. Nothing is under our control.

What would happen if the Neo-Futurists saw things my way? How could they conduct auditions? I just hang back and offer comments and when the people I know are going to emerge as our obvious choices, I back them aggressively. And I discuss my reasons in terms that befit the audition process because that's what you do. That's how you conduct an audition. Just like this. Auditions are just like this.

In the end, it drives me crazy to be a critc. I don't like the words that come out of my mouth when I grope to describe why I like or don't like a person, but I try not to critique critique--because that's just mental confusion. The words are not lies. They're the truth. But they're my truth, and they exist in my mind as a necessary game.

And people audition for us constantly and we are constantly auditioning. When you see someone important, it only takes a few seconds to realize that they will be important once again. You will love them, hate them, want them, fear them. I believe, for what it's worth, that these lessons find you. The larger tests cannot be avoided.

It is Time

I wrote this in 2000, not too long after I joined the Company in 1999. It's about how frustrated I was with the people who had been in the Company longer than I, who seemed so rigid, controlling and unable to see their own folly. It's been on my mind lately because these days I'm part of the institution. I've woken up to find that a new generation of Neo-Futurists views me as part of the intractible Old School. Jeesh.

ANDY sits on stage with a copy of the book: 100 Neo-Futurist Plays From Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind (© 1993). He tears the pages out of it, slowly, each page torn to tiny bits.

ANDY:
I was thinking about death again, but this time I was thinking about ages come and gone, seasons come and past, that kind of death.

Every writer in history has spent more than a moment contemplating how finite their life's work really is. And every aging poet has looked with disgust on the new generation, that "rough beast who's hour's come round at last," so to speak.
It would be hard to imagine building something for years-- even five, seven, nine years--and then leaving that work to someone else. Or watching that work tampered with, held clumsily to the light, prodded with different hands, contemplated with different minds.

But everything we think we own, we will someday lose. And the moment something is fully realized, whatever that something may be, is the moment right before its death. There is no bringing that something back to life, there's only reinvention.

Whether you're an artist or not, the formula still applies: What's past is dead. What you have will die. What you want...is probably really stupid. And if you don't like what you have now, I suggest you learn to like it.

(ANDY scatters the tiny bits of paper onto the stage.)

CURTAIN.