This story would have been my contribution to Live Bait: Cross the Line, which took place on June 3rd, 2011.

I’ve never been much of a gym guy. I would enjoy gym class when I was in school, so much so where I would get a decent grade. But usually the grade came from effort, not necessarily results. What comes to mind when I think of these classes is when we played a dodgeball-esque game. With me, it was quite literally hit-or-miss. I was never good at getting people out, so I never tried to. On a good day, I was very good at dodging. On a good, day, I was able to fake people out and stay alive, sometimes managing to get others back in. Many times I wasn’t even noticed by the opposing team. On a particular occasion, the second-to-last kid on my team was taken out, which caused a rush from the other side to switch the court. This was halted by the gym teacher’s whistle and a calmly delivered: “There’s one more.” Then people on my team suddenly knew who I was. They had to so they could say, “Ryan, get me back in!”

We played this style of game in grade school where we had one line in the middle of the court, and a bowling pin on either side. You had to stay on your side of the court, and of course the purpose was to get people out in a dodgeball-style fashion. If you hit the bowling pin on the other side, anyone on your team who was out is now back in.

We were playing this game once, and the other team was doing very well. It was essentially down to me and one other girl. We were both holding our own fairly well, but unfortunately neither of us were good offensively. With the way we each threw, someone was sure to catch our ball and, by traditional rules, get us out. So we had to get the bowling pin. No question about it. Soon enough, she was out and it was down to me.
While I may not be the best dodgeball player, I am a smart one. When you are on your own, the first thing you need to do is get all of the balls on your side. So I’m dodging everything they throw at me, all the while stock-piling the balls on my side. Luckily, I managed to get every ball. Now or never, I had to get that bowling pin.

I move as close to the line as I can, lining myself right up with that pin. There is one guy on the other team standing in front of the pin, determined that I will not hit it. He will either catch my ball, or he will take one for the team so that I’m still by myself. I only had one shot at this before I had to go back on the defensive. I did a maneuver that only works in grade school, and maybe in young adulthood. I did the infamous “Fake Throw”. This is when you have the ball, and you only pretend to throw the ball. So you move your arm in a throwing motion, but you don’t let the ball go. This guy literally dove out of the way as if it was a grenade coming at him. Once he cleared, I simply rolled the ball with as much accuracy as I could muster. The ball sort of rolled in slow motion, and I was surprised no one ran to stop it. They all just watched what it would do. What they watched was the balling ever-so-slightly nudging the pin, but enough to make it tip over.
I then heard two things: I heard a rush of kids run back over to my side, ecstatic that we now outnumbered the other side. I then heard the gym teacher, Mr. Almonte, yell “You’re out, Hanley!” My foot had just barely crossed the line in the middle, so I was out of bounds. Everyone else was still in, but I was out.

No one got me back in.

I encourage all that can to see "BUSTER KEATON: FADE TO BLACK" A play by Lenny Schwartz, particularly this Friday. It's a great show and has been getting wonderful reviews and responses. But why this Friday, you ask? If anything, please make that day worthwhile for me. Because I won't be in NYC at Barnes & Noble meeting the cast of Doctor Who. Cast and crew, I am letting common sense overtake an over-the-top,outrageous, and slightly feasible nerdgasm. That's how much I love you all and how much I care for this show.

This is a story that was meant to be told at the March edition of Live Bait. The theme was “Eat Your Broccoli”. This is the story of how I met Kevin Broccoli…and went to war against him!

I met Kevin back around 2006 when we were both in a production of The Boys Next Door. Immediately, I thought he hated me. I wasn’t sure why he did. Maybe I did something to him in a past life and he had the ability to remember recall this event. More realistically, he might have just been sizing me up. If this was in fact the case, I don’t think he was impressed. Frankly, if I were to go back to 2006 and size myself up, I’d probably go back to “Young Kevin” and agree with him.

Regardless of initial impressions of each other, real or perceived, we got along fine during the production. This was actually my first community theatre show, and Kevin was certainly part of the reason the experience was enjoyable. Once we had gotten to know each other a bit better, our senses of humor seemed to mesh pretty well.

Once the show wrapped up, I really only saw Kevin on occasion. I might run into him downtown in Providence on the street. I might see him when hanging out with other friends, as it turned out we had some friends in common. But mainly, I would see Kevin at auditions. Right after The Boys Next Door was done, we both ended up auditioning for Proof at the Barker Playhouse. It was a bit weird for me, because now here was a guy I just worked with, and now we were both going for the same role. And this wasn’t a show we could both be in. There was only one character we could both appropriately play. I ended up getting the part. Later on, we both auditioned for You Can’t Take It With You. Once again, it was at Barker. Once again, we were both up for the same part. Once again, I ended up getting it. I’m certainly not saying this to toot my own horn. It’s for chronological purposes, and it will supply some reflective material later on.

Flash ahead some years, and I am in my last year of earning my MFA at Rhode Island College. I performed my thesis project entitled Sex, Please, We’re Americans at Perishable Theatre. It’s coming to the summer of 2010, and I am getting my annual messages of Facebook saying “Please vote for me at this year’s Motif awards”. For those playing the home game, Motif magazine holds a theatre awards ceremony every year, usually at this place called The Hi Hat, where suspiciously hats are banned, and you, the readers, choose the winners. I go on the site to vote for people I want to support, and I am surprised to find that my thesis was nominated for “Best New Work”. Also nominated, “The Kevin Broccoli Monologues”. As many people are aware, Kevin writes monologues regularly and puts together shows. If you haven’t seen one, you should. Also, if you have a moment, ask yourself why.

I am working at RIC, and I run into a friend of mine, Jeff. I’m talking to Jeff, and I mention the Motif nomination. Now I’m the one that can prod people to vote for me. To this, Jeff says “Kevin Broccoli said he wants to destroy you at Motif.” I am certain this was the verb to be performed: destroy. Not beat. Not even overtake. Destroy. Jeff also mentions that Kevin claimed we had a “mutual disdain” for each other. This completely confused me. First if this was a mutual thing, wouldn’t I have been in on it? I feel like I’ve missed many opportunities to express disdain because I didn’t know I was supposed to. I was cheated out of hatred.

The day of Motif arrives. I’m there with my girlfriend Jamie. I see Kevin, I say hello. I’m playing it cool. But maybe to cool because I think he’s on to something, but if he is on to something then he is hiding it well because he too is playing it cool. Too cool, perhaps? By now, I have completely engrossed myself in the “why”. Why does Kevin not like me? What did I…what…now wait a minute. It’s Barker, isn’t it? It’s the two shows at Barker that I did instead of him. Kevin, a fantastic writer who is making his mark in Rhode Island Theatre, a man who is becoming recognized by newsletters and local magazines, a man completely in control of his destiny, is holding a grudge because of two community theatre shows. His success is not enough! He should have been Hal! He should have been Tony! He should have paid the $75 in dues! Not me! And now, Kevin is going to exact his revenge! He is going to destroy me and the work I did! To this I say, “I…think…not!” I will not be destroyed. I will be the destroyer. In fact, I will devour every fiber of this man’s being at the Motif awards! I will devour Kevin Broccoli! I will eat…my…Broccoli.

He won. Rightfully so.

Later that summer, we both were in a show together. And during that rehearsal process, I wanted nothing to do with him. I made efforts to at least be polite. I don’t think I was rude during the process. Just quiet. When we get to the run of the show, I have to say something. I ask him where this mutual disdain is coming from.

“That? That was a joke! I was saying that about everyone. Jeff is a moron.” I don’t know if he really called Jeff a moron. But I am. Jeff, you’re a moron. And I love you.

Jeff actually came to our show, to which I told him that he was mistaken. He knew. In fact he knew so well that he in fact played me for a fool. The whole time.

Since then, I would say Kevin and I have a mutual respect for each other. I would say that we get along pretty well, and our regular interactions at Live Bait are some of the best I’ve had with him. And I am certain that he doesn’t hate me. After all, I’ve gotten to perform his monologues.

Recently, I performed in one of Kevin Broccoli’s monologue shows at the 2^nd Story Theatre in Warren, RI. This is the second time that I got to perform in one of Kevin’s shows, and the first time proved to be a great theatrical experience for me. What I mean by this is that it isn’t like the run-of-the-mill theatre people expect. The kind of theatre that sort of stereotypes the whole form, and it is fueled by the likes of what Peter Brook would call “Deadly Theatre”. This was the kind of theatre that I could really get behind; it was the kind of theatre that understood what it was and it was true to its “self”.

I was excited about the monologue that I had. It was much more substantial than the first one I had performed. It was interesting. It was funny, as well as something I could have fun with. I had a fair amount of time to go over it, and I was feeling good about it. When I got to 2^nd Story that evening, I had gotten to see a fair amount of people who I haven’t worked with in a while. One thing that seemed constant about these people was that they were working regularly, and I mean this in a performance sense. They were working regularly in work that seemed interesting and provoking. At the time of this show, I too was part of a production currently in rehearsal. And while I felt good about this production, I felt a bit stifled with all of the other work I have been doing. I don’t know if it had to do with the monotony of the work, or if it was because the work in itself was not pulling in a crowd, but I was in need of a new creative outlet. I needed something creative that would give me a solid kick in the pants. I tried turning towards writing, primarily through a comedy writing course through Second City in Chicago. Unfortunately, that class was now over. And while the class provided a great deal of information and practice, I am not so sure it provided me with the thing I wanted most: the “want” to write. This is probably something that can’t be manufactured, but nevertheless it is still something that I am eager to grasp hold of. It is something I want to not bury in excuses. “It’s been a long day.” “I’m tired.” “I’ll watch a movie instead.”

We have a little less than an hour until the doors open, and I’m seeing the space for the first time. I hadn’t the pleasure of being at 2^nd Story before, but it’s one of those theaters in RI that people want to be involved with. It’s generated this certain amount of clout that those in the artistic community want a piece of that pie. I was unaware that the place was in the round, which was certainly interesting. I was also unaware that my particular monologue was part of a dual monologue. I would be performing this alongside another actress named Katie. It’s our turn to get up. Katie and I are on opposite ends of the stage. We are performing monologues about a one night stand we had with each other, each with very different perspectives. Katie goes first. Her monologue is good. It’s solid. The delivery is where it needs to be. I’m feeling the lights trying to melt me from the head down.

I start my monologue, and right away I begin to blank. Why am I blanking? I know this monologue. I know I know this monologue. I take a look at it from off my phone, continue, and I blank again. I take another look, and I continue. More blanks. This is getting absurd. I tell Kevin “I need to sit down and look at this”.

One thing I will give Kevin was that he was as calm as could be. I’ve worked with enough where he thankfully had something he considered faith in me. Meanwhile, I was sweating bullets. Here I was, at a monologue show, and I don’t know my monologue. These shows that Kevin had been doing for a while gained a good rep. I didn’t want to be the guy that tarnished this rep. I didn’t want to be the guy that let the rest of the cast down. I could almost picture myself completely blanking in front of a full house, watching Katie stand uncomfortably as I tried to remember my next line. I didn’t want to be “that guy”.

One thing that I can assure you all of is that one of the biggest rushes one can have is not knowing what you are doing before you have to do it. Not to be confused with being inexperienced. I felt confident in the skills I’ve gained for the stage. I knew this was something I could potentially do. Think of it like a NFL quarterback, at the Super Bowl, and he forgot all of the plays. As I watched the beginning of the show, going over my monologue over and over in my head, I could feel my heart beating in my throat. The anxiety was like nothing else. If it was a drug, I was not only hooked on it, I was hooked, kicking it, going through withdrawal, rehab, and then hooked again. Like one of Lindsay Lohan’s months.

This anxiety kept building and building, all the way through Katie’s monologue. Finally, it was my turn. I took one moment, one moment to make a choice. Somehow, that choice got a laugh, which was good in this case. I started talking, and thankfully, I talked the whole way through. I had one rough patch, where I had switched some stuff around, but everything that had to be there was there. The audience seemed to have enjoyed the piece. My adrenaline slowly went down all the way to intermission. After that, I went over to Katie to congratulate her on a job well done. Then, I went downstairs, got myself a beer, came back up, and had the best “cool-down” I’ve ever experienced.

In one fell swoop, I felt what I needed to feel, both creatively and mentally. Pants thoroughly kicked.

I had a strange dream just the other night. I was back in Ohio, where I worked summer stock. It didn't look like the Ohio I knew, but I could tell that it was. At one point I saw a whole group of people, but I only recognized two people. One person was this girl I was somewhat dating. I don't think I could really call it dating, though, at least not within the confides of New Philadelphia. Her hair was longer than I remember, and she was wearing a red dress. The weird thing about the dress was that it was hiked up in the front, revealing, well...

All I could think was "Put that away!" I didn't want to see what I was seeing, in more ways than one.

I am pretty sure I knew why I had this dream, or at least the elements that caused the dream. The dress came from Leonard Nimoy's (yes, Spock) photography. I came across it recently, and he has a series called Secret Selves. One picture includes an artist painting a budding flower, and the model for the flower is in fact a woman lifting her dress. Who knew Vulcans could be that artistic?

As for the girl, I can thank Facebook for that one. I was checking out some travel photos posted by an old Ohio buddy, and there she was in his group of Facebook friends. She was much different than I remember. Her hair was actually shorter, formed around her face. She looked older, sort of plain. Her last name was also different, which leads me to believe she got married, or is running from a drug cartel.

One thing I need to clarify right away is that I am very much over this person in the loving sense. I have been for a long time now, Jamie being the greatest factor in all of that. To say I have no remaining feelings would be misleading. The fact of the matter is that I have very, very negative feelings towards this person. What could have still been a great friendship ended very poorly. And after trying to figure things out for myself in the time that followed, I became very angry. At first, I was walking on egg shells because I didn't want things to be awkward. At the same time, I wanted to keep in touch because our friendship meant a lot. Things became very misunderstood on both ends, but I could only focus on the negative after all was said and done. Things could have worked out, but at the time I thought I caused too much damage and couldn't talk to her. But I later on, I realized that her anger, or what could have been seen as anger, came out of ignorance. I had all this guilt because she couldn't trust me to stick with what we agreed on. In this ignorance, she treated me like a plague. Spalding Gray might have called it "Walking Dutch Elm Disease".

I guess the thing is that I thought I would be angrier. I would very seldom go on an Ohio friend's Facebook because I'd be afraid I'd come across her picture, which would tie this huge knot in my stomach. I went out of my way to avoid this person. On the other hand, I wondered what would happen if we met again. I saw myself yelling at her, wanting her to feel horrible. But the reality was that I didn't care. I didn't care that I saw her picture. I didn't care that she was married (young at that). And I almost didn't know what I saw in the first place.

I'm not trying to put this person down. I hope she is happy and living well. I think at this point I can just stop being angry, or I hope I can stop. Call it growing up if you want, or maybe just call it a bad dream. Maybe I'll just pin this one on Facebook and Spock.

I don’t ask for my car to break down. I try and take care of it as best as I can, but there is only so much you can do for a ’93 Toyota Camry. Don’t get me wrong, I am fully aware that a car that old is prone to break down now and then, and I really shouldn’t be as surprised as I usually get when it happens. It’s like being shocked when a glass breaks after dropping it from a good height. “How could this happen to glass?” It’s just that at one end I’ve put so much money into this damn car, but at the other end I probably haven’t put in as much money as it is actually worth. I got the car for $10 from my father’s wife. She was originally going to give it to me for $1, but the guy at the DMV told me to mark it as $10 to avoid some weird tax. Now that I think of it, I actually didn’t pay her a thing. She just made this figurative charge for the DMV. So in the end I guess I get what I don’t pay for.

I don’t ask for my car to break down, but when it does I insist on taking public transportation. I don’t all the time, mainly because my mother insists on me driving her car. I don’t know what she has against public transportation. Maybe she thinks that working through the bus schedule is more trouble than it is worth, maybe she doesn’t want me to spend money, or maybe even she thinks they are just going to run late because I am on them, and within this lateness I get mugged by several men and maybe even a few women. I don’t know why, but I really don’t mind taking the bus. I actually see it as a relief, to both my mother and myself. It should be a relief to my mother because she won’t have to worry about her car. Her car will be fully accessible to her and all will be well. It’s actually a bit of a relief for me as well because obtaining her car is a bit of a hassle at times. Most mornings I don’t have to get up very early, but if I need to use her car I have to get up early in order to drive her to work. So on a day where I don’t have to be at school until ten o’clock, I need to get up at six-thirty to leave for Smithfield at eight and then be back at Cranston around nine. So now I’m technically ready to get to where I have to be for ten, but I have no energy. I need to sleep up until the last possible minute and hit the snooze. So I’m ready for ten, but because I have no energy I lull around and end up being late anyway. I can’t win this way. Driving my mother isn’t the best either. She can very much be a backseat driver, so much so that I usually have her drive when we are both in the car. I drive with her there now and then, and it still feels like driver’s ed, only this time the instructor is trying to get us killed. “What is that on your windshield? LOOK OUT!” The bus is different because I have to adhere to a schedule, which I actually like. If I don’t meet this schedule, the whole day is shot and I’ll feel awful. A bus schedule at least motivates me enough to be on time. If I have my own car, it’s like I’m saying “Well, if I’m late, I’m late. At least I have a way to get there.”

Recently I got my opportunity to take the bus because my car broke down on the way to teach my theatre class. I was coming up to a red light and there was suddenly this great burst of noise coming from my car, followed by some sputtering and then nothing. Stuck in the middle of Pleasant Valley Parkway next to the Coca-Cola plant, so at the very least I wouldn’t get thirsty. That’s not true, actually. I don’t drink Coca-Cola. I was referring to my situation as a “pop n’ stop”. First I popped, and then I stopped. I saw it as a nice little explanation for my situation, although the situation was far from nice. It was like the car behind me took out a gun and shot my car. I immediately turn on my hazard lights, which should have told the traffic behind me that my car had thrown in the towel, however the traffic behind me was apparently not that smart. The person directly behind me was honking with this confused look on his face. “Why aren’t you going?” Look, buddy, if you can get this thing to start, I’ll let you have it. Maybe not all of my lights were working and I looked like some guy making a turn, but forgot how to halfway through. The worst was that I had to move my car somehow, and the moment I tried to push it myself it began to roll backward, causing a frantic hand to plunge into the break. I was fortunate enough to have the guy I almost backed into get out of his car and help me push, so I was mostly out of the way now. The side street was tight and I really couldn’t be parked there. Funny enough, I was surprisingly calm for having my car break down. This was probably due to the first thought running through my head being “Hey! Day off!” I really shouldn’t have been that happy. I had a class to teach after all. But then I realized they were getting a day off too, so it was alright.

So that Friday when I had to come and work at the computer lab on campus, I took the opportunity to take the bus. If you haven’t ever taken public transportation, do yourself a favor and take it at least once. It’s really not as bad as you might think, although the two-day experience I had was no short of interesting. It started out well, though, or at least as well as it could be. I had gotten up that morning, determined to take the bus, determined not to drive my mother to work with her backseat driving, but it wasn’t until after everyone left that I realized I had no cash on me. I didn’t make it to an ATM before and wasn’t sure how I was going to pull this one off. I ended up having to take a ten-minute walk to the nearest Citizen’s Bank so I could take out some cash. The ten-minute walk isn’t what stinks, it’s the fact that the bus stops right down the street from my house. I really only had to walk a minute to catch the bus, but today I’m running through rain so I can get on the bus further on its route. But I pulled it off and I figured things would be smooth sailing from there. How wrong I was. I needed to be home in time for a rehearsal later that night, so I take an early bus to give myself some breathing time. My trip ended up being my breathing time. The bus gets caught up in some heavy traffic on our way to Kennedy Plaza and we are stopped. I’m sitting on this bus and I am jumping in my skin. Am I going to catch my next bus? Will I get home in time? Will I even get home? Oh jeez, maybe my mom is right and I am going to get mugged, or maybe that guy in the back has a gun and he’s going to shoot us all to bits! Someone actually got off the bus while we were in traffic and decided to walk the rest of his trip, which in my mind was Kennedy Plaza. I could see him getting there and making his next bus, which was also my next bus, and he’s just sitting there with this smug look on his face because the rest of us are still stuck in traffic. I should have followed this guy, but I didn’t. I sat there and tried to convince myself that we’d make it. The bus just has to make it! It’s on a schedule, how could it be late?! We didn’t make it, so I have to wait at Kennedy Plaza for the next bus to Cranston and basically get home at the time I didn’t want to get home. However, because I am getting home at this later time, I now get to see…the sex. Not real sex, but it was close enough for a bus stop. I’m inside the actual station, and there is this young couple making out in some shadowy corner. There are tons of people around these two people, who had to be freshmen in college or thereabouts, and they are going at it. I immediately give it a month. I’ve seen this type; the type that is so desperately in love that they end up suffocating in their own tonsils. I feel horrible thinking that this relationship is bound to fail, but I know it is. I just know it. I think I have an idea of what love is, and it isn’t it. It’s just two people going at it like bus stop animals, and I can’t look away. It isn’t love, but it’s hot, and now I’m this pervert. Kennedy Plaza has turned me into a voyeur and I need to look away. So I’m trying to look anywhere but in the direction of this couple, and I’m facing a pane of glass, and now I can see them in the reflection of the glass. But I think “Well, it’s not like they can say I’m staring at them.” And this seals the deal. I am officially a pervert now. All I need now is a mustache and an 8mm camera, and Saturday night is going to be alright by me. Finally they stop, and now I can look away. But the girl is very distinct looking, or maybe she just seems distinct because I’ve been staring at her suck the face off this boy. She was wearing this green dress, and now she was sloppily putting on a hooded sweatshirt while fiddling with a shoe. This is what made it like sex. She had to get dressed after the whole experience. I couldn’t tell what the couple was saying to each other, but it might as well have been “That was great, but you should probably get going now.” So now I’ve had my dose of bus stop porn and I go home.

My second day on the buses was certainly more interesting. It started with me not catching the first bus. Luckily the next bus would still get me to where I had to be on time, which was ironically my theatre class that I had to teach. The guy waiting at the stop claims that the driver drove off early. If this was true, I don’t know, but this man and his portable radio claim that it was this Spanish woman driver who left five minutes before she was supposed to and was a “nice lady”. I think… “No. That’s not a nice woman at all.” But I don’t dwell on it, and as I wait there not dwelling this other guy comes up to me, also waiting for the bus, and says “You look familiar. Were you at East?” “Yeah, I was.” “JROTC?” “Yeah.” “That’s where I know you from. What’s your name?” “Ryan.” “Yeah, that sounds familiar.” “Oh, well, what’s your name?” “Sean.” He wasn’t familiar in the least. He could have been familiar; the guy was only a year behind me in high school apparently. But I respond with “Yeah, yeah, yeah, alright.” I just ramble on like I could even pretend to know who he was. But I chat him up a bit, which is good. I tell him about my car, and later when he leaves the bus at his stop he says to me “Good luck to you.” I don’t know why that stuck.

There were a few characters on that particular bus. One was this young kid who got on and sat in one of those sideways seats right up in front. I almost sat there, but I ended up not, which was good. I hadn’t noticed that there was a sign at those seats reading “Reserved for seniors and disabled persons. Reservado para los de edad avanzada e incapacitados.” So now this kid was sitting there, and in my mind he is instantly a senior citizen. Why not a disabled person? No idea. Senior citizen seemed funnier. Now this girl comes on the bus and she is pissed! She has this look on her face and it is a scowl to beat all scowls. Wherever she is going, she doesn’t want to be there. She sits in the sideways seat right near me and her scowl is a nose away, not to mention she is now an instant “avanzada”.

Of course Kennedy Plaza had to try and live up to the experience that was last time. It did. I don’t know what it is about that place, but it is a constant show. Now there were two African-American cops, both bald, along with another bald African-American on his knees in front of them. The two cops were talking as if he wasn’t there, so I couldn’t tell if they were there for him now. The man looked like he could have had newspapers in his lap, so maybe he was selling them. So I watch for a while, once again becoming the notorious Kennedy Plaza voyeur. One cop fist bumps some random white guy. Go Obama. Now a fire truck pulls up, and of course it is in the spot where my bus is going to pull up. Some fireman get out, and there are some bike cops as well, and now they are here talking, ignoring this newspaper man. The fire truck moves and an ambulance pulls up, followed by more talking and ignoring. Next thing I know the guy on his knees is gone. It seemed like a lot of commotion for nothing.

Then – CLANG! Something drops in the plaza and my eyes go right to it. A can of iced tea, its owner looking down at his drink that he just carelessly dropped. He picks it up, tosses it, but makes no movement to clean the spill. In fact, he is focusing every last drop of his energy to not look at that spill. He looks down once more as the liquid creeps towards his expensive sneakers, and then he does this weird back-step to avoid the spill. He is avoiding this spill with every bit of his body. It’s like if he doesn’t look at it, it isn’t his anymore. A RIPTA worker sees it, and she knows. She knows its sneaker-boy, but doesn’t do anything. She goes on her way. I look back to sneaker-boy and…oh shit! Oh shit!! He’s making out with his girlfriend! It’s the same stop as that couple from before. No! Why is this place a giant aphrodisiac? I need to get out of there. My bus is supposed to be here in four minutes, but the ambulance is still there. I’m thinking this is going to delay things unless they get the hell out in four minutes. You have to move, buddy. I’m the consumer! And surprisingly they do move. These guys work fast. Lucky I went outside because my bus was parked further back from its stop. I get on with the thought that I could have missed this bus because it didn’t pull up. But I’m there.

I met two more people on my trip home. Two young African-Americans, brother and sister. The brother was bothering the sister about some guy she might have been dating. Apparently they were on and off a lot. The sister wanted no part of this guy’s bull and was gripping his fingers very tight with intent to hurt him. And she was hurting him. He’s squirming there trying not to scream out in pain, and he’s going “Why are you trying to rape me?” Sister wants none of this, insisting through more fingers that he doesn’t throw that word around. But he continues “Why are you raping me?” Finally he says “I bet all the white people on this bus are freaking out because of what we’re doing.” I don’t know what compelled me to respond. Maybe I was just winding down from a long day, maybe I was happy that I was actually getting my car back when I got home, but I turned around and looked at him. I looked at him and said “We are. On behalf of the white people, we are freaking out. In fact, I’m pissing myself right now.” He laughed. He could see I was joking, and I went on to tell him that I was in theatre and this stuff didn’t faze me. This became an invitation for him to fill me in on all the details I didn’t know before, but after that I sat in silence home.

It was an interesting two days to say the least. In a way, I’m looking forward to the next time my car breaks down.

I was lucky enough to go down to the Providence Performing Arts Center last night, where I got to see one of my idols, Garrison Keillor, perform about 90 minutes worth of stories, some which I recognized from his previous works, others I was hearing for the first time. All together, it was a wonderful performance. I was afraid that I was going to have to go by myself, which certainly would have changed the experience, however my friend Mike, who is also a fan of the radio bard, was more than happy to come with me.

One of the perks of going with Mike was that he had worked in PPAC as an usher for quite some time, and he knew all of the ins and outs of that place. Specifically, he knew where the stage door was and suggested that if we wait by the stage door, perhaps we will get to meet our hero of Lake Woebegone fame. This decision led to quite an interesting evening.

As much as I wanted to wait by the stage door, my car was parked in a lot that was going to lock up within 30 minutes after the show ended, so moving it was more than necessary. Luckily, I was able to find a spot on the street near the theater almost immediately, and we soon hurried back to the stage door. There wasn't a crowd waiting, not one single person. Maybe it was a well kept secret, or maybe GK had left already. We wait a few minutes when a security guard comes outside for a smoke. Mike asks him if Garrison Keillor had left, and the guard informed us that he had. "He got here right before the show started, and then he left soon after it was over." Apparently those red shoes are used to be nimble. But who could blame the guy? It was just him doing the show. Why bother sticking around, despite the fact that he could very well outrun 90% of his audience demographic. Jokingly, I looked at Mike and told him "That's what he wants us to think." Little did I know that I would be right.

As we made our way back to the front of PPAC, we saw Garrison Keillor leaving out the front door. Mike and I then proceeded to lock our joints. We were starstruck and did not know what to do at all. Should we call out to him? Should we run and catch up to him? We started contemplating "What is the worst thing that could happen?" He thinks we are some crazies and gives us his autograph on a restraining order, or at least that was the scenario Mike and I figured. By the time we would have been able to do something, GK was long gone.

Mike then made a suggestion. "You know, if he is staying at the Biltmore, he might just go get a coffee at Starbucks." It was certainly a long shot, but we figured "what the hell", we could go for a coffee anyway.

Needless to say GK was not there, however we had some good conversation on various topics. One thing that did keep popping up, however, was the fact that we missed an opportunity to meet him. We even had books of his with us in hopes we could get his signature on them. But by the end of our drinks, I figured we had completely put aside the notion of spotting him.

We go back towards PPAC, looking to finally go home, when Mike exclaims "Oh my God, Garrison Keillor is eating at Pizza Queen!" Sure enough, there he was in the window of Pizza Queen, a small pizza place right across from PPAC. Here was this star of public radio, eating with the true people of Providence, RI at 11:00 at night. I looked and Mike and figured "There has got to be a reason for this. There is no way this is just a coincidence. We missed the first opportunity, and now God was saying 'Here is your second shot.'" I insisted that we take this chance and not extend a sense of disappointment.

There were a few problems, however. He was on his phone, for one thing. As theatre folk, Mike and I know that it would be very rude to bother a fellow artist and be an annoyance. We were tempted to be, but we had to think of something else. We also couldn't just walk in there as it was and not order anything. Besides, the show had been over for about an hour, and we would look like creepers. Maybe we were. So our idea was that we would go in, order something, and if the opportunity arose that we could say something, we would. All the while, we are once again pondering "What is the worst thing that could happen?"

This time, my imagination ran away from me a bit. I figured that maybe he would give a grim look and perhaps pull a gun on us, demanding that we put our books down and back away slow. If we wanted those books back, we would have to order them on eBay for over $100 a piece from the user name "GKeillor". Most importantly, we couldn't listen to his show anymore, and if he found out that we were listening, he would come back and sue the pants off of us. To me, that was the worst thing that could happen, and I was willing to risk it.

The plan fell apart immediately as GK rose from his table and was about to leave, still on his phone. Mike and I had to think fast. Our new plan was simple: act like we were talking, and when Garrison comes outside, Mike will say "Oh my God, it's Garrison Keillor!" That will get his attention at the very least. We were willing to commit to this insanity, and it was in this insanity that I realized we are swooning over a guy on public radio. While this isn't necessarily up there on the manliness meter, we swooned none the less.

GK comes outside, on his phone, and I look over. I looked at him straight in the eye and did nothing. I didn't know what to do. I may have given an odd smirk, I am not sure. But in my head, I thought "Oh crap, he knows the plan!" Mike then went on to say "Oh my God, it's Garrison Keillor!" He said this, however, in his lowest voice possible. GK, meanwhile, turned and walked off. A man, taking a nice easy walk back to wherever, which we could clearly outrun, got away for the second time that night.

I don't know why we were so starstruck. I am not sure how we let this happen twice. Yet what I do know is that it made for a very interesting evening. That, and I learned that Garrison Keillor is surprisingly quick. It's got to be the shoes.