The past couple of days have been filled with thinking of Bill and the staged reading he was involved with last night. He had been rehearsing it since the beginning of the year. I heard the rehearsals when they were done on Zoom a few rooms away but I could not make out what the words were. I got the tone, a lot of yelling and cursing, and Bill often looked exhausted afterward, as if he had gone through the ringer.
I wanted to be of any assistance to this event, but it really wasn’t asked for and somewhat rebuffed. Still, I persevered and bought a case of water to hand out to whichever patrons might arrive. It was at Jim Mastro’s 503 Social Club, a boxy performance space around the block from two apartments that I lived in 40 years ago.
I had hoped to get some fliers out and post them at various stores and shops in Hoboken. It would have been effective if I could have posted them a week or so before, but I had only gotten them a day before, and the ship had sailed. And the info on those fliers was incorrect anyhow.
On Saturday, Mike and I went to Guitar Bar, where the fliers were sent, but were told there were no fliers. Bill went a few hours later and got the fliers from the same location. So, most of the actions that I wanted to do to help were futile. It added to my despondency.
Saturday was a tightrope of despair, and I tried to put on a brave face, but it was difficult. Mike doesn’t know how to deal with my sensitivity or, as he puts it, my feelings. And Bill was too wrapped up in his preparations to notice.
We did watch Sing Sing, starring Colman Domingo, who is fast becoming one of our favorite actors and afterward Bill, Mike, and I had a good discussion on it. It was a very good film and resonated more with Bill and Mike, with me taking more of an objective view. I can’t say that I would watch it again, but I wouldn’t say no.
Mike slept over again and came back after work on Monday so he could attend. Our neighbor from our building, Deb, handled the stage directions as Bill and the playwright, Chris did the dialogue. I had a nice chat with Deb before the reading started, and she asked me how the podcast was going.
I explained that it seemed the idea was deflated. The people I initially spoke to about the podcast (and you can count them on one hand) never spoke of it again, which is why I was surprised that Deb mentioned it. It was support and interest that reignited the flame under my butt to try and get it going again.
I just need some interest from people around me, though I seem to know that the interest would not be forthcoming, so I need to maintain my own interest in the endeavor rather than hoping that people outside of my head would say something. So the flame was lit and must be maintained somehow by ME.
Deb offered the use of her studio set up in her apartment should I get the podcast concept up and running again. I did bring it up to Bill and Mike, telling them the concept, picking out one of my early postings that they would like me to read as well as asking me questions about what I had just read. They said they would be into it, though if and when the time comes, I can’t say whether or not they would step up to the plate.
Joshua Limbo was the name of the play that was read last night. Bill played Herb, an elderly Black man living in a shack near Joshua Tree in California. The playwright, Chris, had the role of Kosh, a grifter whose motive was unclear at first. He was definitely a sketchy character, not very likable. The words were harsh and caused me to flinch a couple of times. It was intense, to say the least, but I hope a fully formed version will be performed later on down the line.
Mike and I walked home, Bill joining us soon after. We had a heady discussion about the play, about performing and about life and racial issues that were brought up in the reading. Bill was off to bed after that, Mike asleep on the couch, and me at the computer for a little while before turning in for sleep.
Most of the weekend was filled with anxiety on Bill’s behalf, hoping for a good turnout for the reading, and when it was all over, all I had was myself to contend with. And that was not very pretty.
The job search continues, and the ignoring of my applications went on. I sort of appreciate the notice of rejection, rather than the falling by the wayside of how these applications seem to go. So today my spirits crashed hard. Bill was off to get a haircut at noon, but that didn’t happen. I had a plan to call 988 since my level of despair had sunken quite low.
If someone, anyone, tells me they will be doing something at such and such a time, I will believe them, even though I know they are always late or don’t take into consideration my handling of time. So Bill did not go anywhere at noon and I decided to head out as the day was the nicest it’s been in about four or five days.
I asked Bill to join me on my sojourn, and he did, so we discussed what we were talking about on the sidewalks of Hoboken, having a decidedly less heated chat as we strolled to the supermarket. Now I sit, having written. Bill sits a few feet behind me, eating popcorn and playing games on his phone.
I am still somewhat forlorn, but not as bad as I was earlier. The walk, the talk, helped me considerably though Bill and I are not really communicating. Things will get better, I know. Sometimes you have to stand aside and let things go the way they will.
