Saint Patrick's Well

Early Tuesday morning in New York. Bright and cool. I’ve arrived in the midst of the best weather in the history of Manhattan. Wandered about yesterday in the clear morning light preliminary to my adventure in Stony Point. Got to 96th Street with 90 minutes to spare, but my dread of tardiness is so deep I could scarcely do otherwise. Penguin Rep director Joe Brancato picked me and three of the actors up and began to whisk us to the leafy suburbs, but his car broke down and we had to be rescued by David Kucher, the literary director. This was the first, and it turned out the only, bad omen of the day. Maybe it was a good omen, to get disaster behind us at the outset. Nick, Emma, and Dana chatted with Joe as I mostly listened from the front seat. Dana, who is stunningly beautiful, model-in-the-magazine ads beautiful, didn’t have much to say, but Emma and Nick fountained forth gossip, recitations of credits, theater anecdotes . It was really quite amazing. Part of it was, of course, a friendly turf war to see whose credits were more impressive. Maybe Joe was keeping track, but I lost my way early on. It seemed to me that to have that much experience they would have to be 100 years old, but it felt good to have all that seasoning funneled into my play. Names were dropped, which again eluded me, unless they were explained, such as, “By ‘Kevin’ he means Kevin Spacey.” Everybody was known and analyzed and worked with upon occasion. Everyone was a first name and a shadow of assumptions. Perhaps this wasn’t the intention, but the effect was to make clear to me how hopelessly distant I am from the New York theater scene, how very, very few names are known to me, how meager my theater-going experience compared to the professionals. I was left gazing out the window at the passing of the surprisingly lush countryside. I am a rank outsider. I don’t much care, except to ponder how many animated conversations in the coming years are going to mean nothing to me, except for pleasure in the exuberance of those having them. Late in the evening Joe asked where I lived in New York, and I told him I live in North Carolina. He knew that of course, but he had assumed I had an apartment or a pied a terre in the City. That I have determined to make a kind of career, anyway, in the New York theater from my little house in Asheville must loom pretty large to the world among my peculiarities.

Car trouble aside, the rehearsal went well, and the performance very well indeed. The eggplant at the local bistro was sublime. The actor playing old Diarmuid wasn’t up to the level, but Dana, Nick, and Emma showed what “professional” means. The passages they stumbled over in rehearsal were perfect in performance. Nick looked so wildly Irish on stage that I thought he had used magic to shape-shift. I was jet-lagged and had missed my nap, but I hope my gratitude and excitement showed through. The little re-made barn of a theater amid the foliage was packed. The mean age of the audience was around 90. I didn’t think of this as my play’s ideal audience, but in the event it was a triumph. In the question-and-answer, all they could get out of themselves was praise. I was very happy. I don’t know what happens now, but for that moment, and this one too, I was very happy.