New York City Storyteller

I have been a senior in high school. I have been a senior in college. I am now a senior citizen. Yet what I am, really, is a sophomore. I am a wise-fool. In Greek sophos means wise, and moros means fool. There are moments when I display knowledge, and I am of some use. Then there are times when I let my instincts reign and I break all rules of propriety.

From Monday August 23 to Wednesday August 25, I was a tour guide for freshmen about to attend Stevens Institute of Technology, in Hoboken, New Jersey. They had paid an additional fee for these excursions. Official orientation actually commenced at a 1 PM lunch, August 25.

Three guides were on the job, all with the same itineraries. The first day, Monday, we were to travel uptown, north of 59th Street. All tours started on campus. That day it rained. The temperature was in the high seventies. My charges showed up in shorts or pants, t-shirts and sandals, with an occasional person adorned with running shoes, or jacket. They walked slowly and were all yawning. They had attended the previous night’s activity which ended late.

If all who paid appeared, including school staff, two coaches were to have forty-seven participants, and one was to have forty-six. I left with forty-four, after ejecting seven, as instructed by the man-in-charge. He told me, “You have too many.” I responded with, “Let them stay. I believe in free will. Plus, they probably already bonded.” He rolled his eyes, this being our sixth year of working together, and grabbed the microphone. He eventually got what he wanted.

Then I introduced myself to the group. “I am your tour guide, Jane. I am not your role model. Please do not look up to me in any area.”

I distributed maps of the city. Two students refused them. I admonished all with, “Always say yes to a free hand-out. You may learn something. You may not. You can always throw it away. If you say ‘no’ you deny yourself the experience.”

Our first stop was the Episcopal Cathedral of St. John the Divine. Its main entrance was on 112th Street and Amsterdam Avenue. It was in an area of Manhattan called Morningside Heights, though on an English land grant from the 18th century, it was part of Harlem. I said, “That means nothing is as it appears to be; that’s why romance is short lived, a high, like a drug. You have to come down. What you are experiencing is sexual tension. That is fleeting and simultaneously forever present. It is an on-going battle. A well-formed thigh, a small nose, or straight aligned white teeth, are physical attributes, not a measure of lasting connection. Happiness comes from work you like and courage. The rest is illusion. ”

Several people were sleeping. They only awoke when they heard us leaving. I continued outside.“The tour of the Cathedral is voluntary. I have much to offer. You may not believe it, or you may not wish to receive it. Only through your mistakes in judgment will you discover who you really are. For those who wish to drop out, meet me on the coach in thirty minutes. For Seinfeld fans, the diner in that TV show is at the corner of 112th Street and Broadway.”

A few left, but I still had a following.

The Cathedral had a suggested admission fee. I had a check. I got brochures, and everyone wanted one. I told them it was about two-thirds finished. Construction had stopped. It was too costly. I added, “Even spiritual endeavors have a price.” Then I pointed out where the Cathedral changed architectural directions, going from Byzantine-Romanesque to Gothic. I concluded with, “It is human nature to change your mind, even in the middle of a project. Only a confident person contradicts himself. The only thing that is permanent is your epitaph.”

The Cathedral covered 121,000 square feet. The nave, from floor to ceiling, was 124 feet and around the chapels, it was 232 feet. “Look up.” I said. “That will remind you what you really are, a speck in the universe, here for just a moment and gone in a flash. Learn to laugh. That skill will make whatever befalls you tolerable.”

Several now wondered where the bathrooms were.

The Cathedral’s cornerstone was in place December 27, 1892. That year Ellis Island opened. The seven chapels represented a few groups who came through there, Germans, Irish, Scots, Scandinavians, French, Italian,and some Africans and Asians. At the altar, were two candelabras, or Jewish menorahs, gifts from Adolph Ochs, the publisher of the New York Times. This was his thank you for the Cathedral coming out against the persecution of the Jews in Russia.

The Cathedral was situated on 11.5 acres, with gardens and other church operated structures. The previous owner was the Leake and Watts Orphanage Asylum. Its 1840s classical Greek Temple structure, was still present, where the south transept would be if the Cathedral had been finished. Inside that building were offices and a peacock pen. Three peacocks ran free. They came inside when it got dark, and slept where the orphans had been before them.

While back on the coach, I praised my students with their somnolent tendencies. I said, “Napping forestalled old age, which they will never reach, if they continued doing so while driving.” They all laughed.

What joy I felt to have initiated such merrymaking. To flaunt social convention, to unleash emotions contained within a child-like heart, and to act the fool is to know freedom.

Here’s to the sophomore in all of us.

My way of getting to a different story is by ascending or descending via a spiral staircase. I never take a direct route to my ultimate destination, unless forced. That was how it went with my appendix.

It was August 1, 1970. It was 4 AM. I was alone in my apartment. I lived at 84th Street and Third Avenue. Both of my roommates were away. I had awakened to a pain on the right side of my abdomen, as if I had swallowed a large watermelon that was trying to exit through a small orifice. The pressure was unbearable. I was feverish. When I stood up, I doubled over.

I reached for an old copy of New York Magazine. I dialed the 24-hour phone number listed in its article about being sick in New York City without a doctor.

I got instructions to go to 89th Street and Third Avenue, northwest side, second building from the corner and ring apartment 1A. I walked there carrying only a small purse. A man wearing white opened the door. He spoke English with an accent. He was alone. There was a philodendron on the windowsill. Its leaves were brown, dried, and curled. On the wall were his medical degrees from Iran and Germany.

I told him my symptoms. He told me I was suffering from chronic appendicitis that was now acute; my appendix had to come out. He said, “You have more than 103 degree fever. You may get peritonitis. That’s a terrible infection, which could be fatal.” Then he added, “By the way, you were built to have babies.”

All I wanted to know was which hospitals he was associated with and their addresses. He said, “Midtown, 309 East 49th Street, Trafalgar, 161 East 90th, and Wickersham, 133 East 58th Street.” I never heard of any of them, yet I chose Wickersham, because of where it was, across the street from Bloomingdale’s. My friends liked to shop. I wanted them to visit.

I had no cash, only tokens, so I took the subway to the hospital. I walked inside an office building. In the lobby, I read this sign, “Hospital 5 –11.” I pressed five on the elevator, while holding a letter from the doctor. I walked into the Admitting Room. The nurse said, “Sign in and find a seat.” I found the lone vacant one in the back, in the last row. Young women were everywhere, sitting next to men of varying ages.

One hour later, a nurse was scolding me. She was reading my doctor’s instructions. “You should have come directly to me. You have an emergency. These women are having abortions.”

Another nurse led me upstairs. I asked if I could make a call. I phoned my parents. My brother answered. I had seen my mother, father and brother the night before. We had dinner at a restaurant. I ate a couple of fried shrimp, fried onion rings and a few spoonfuls of coleslaw. I did not touch my favorite dessert, peppermint chip ice cream. Everyone wondered what was wrong. I said, “Nothing, except my head throbs. I have a pain on my side, then my back, then my arm, for weeks. I feel hot and then cold. Sometimes I’m dizzy. “

They responded with, “Wish yourself well and you shall be well.” Off we went to see the musical “Coco” about the life of the French designer, Coco Chanel. That French star, Michele Morgan, had replaced Katharine Hepburn and she had garnered raves.

I had gotten house seats in the tenth row, center orchestra. I worked for Shubert three nights a week selling theater tickets on the first floor of Macy’s. One of the benefits was free tickets to any show, if seats were available, the day of the request. I saw 48 shows in a year and a half.

Watching the models adorned in their Chanel creations, I forgot what ailed me. Yet here I was, the next day, lying flat in a bed, recuperating from having my appendix removed. I was the fourth bed in a room that was designed for only two. There was no space for any visitors to stand except at the foot of the bed.

I was at the window. The woman next to me had a heart attack. The woman next to her had her gall bladder removed. The woman close to the door had a breast reduction due to severe back pain.

Today, there is no more Wickersham Hospital, but a modern office tower in its stead. Yet two celebrities knew of it before I ever was a patient. One was Ruth McKenney, reporter for the New York Post and author of a best seller, My Sister Eileen. That became a play, and “Wonderful Town,” the musical. She was in its maternity ward, January 29, 1937. Her sister Eileen had given birth to a son.

Jazz aficionados knew of it as well. That was where, on May 20, 1969, tenor saxophonist Coleman Hawkins died. He was known for his big tone, and heavy vibrato, especially playing “Body and Soul,” “Out of Nowhere” and “Day Is Done.”

When the day is done, we are just the sum of our stories. Some we find directly. Others take us on a circuitous route, or a spiral staircase. It is we, who create our Stairway to Paradise.

I am in a farce and I am always the same character. I am vain, irrational, venal and immature. I spout lines without bothering to find sub-text. I jump into situations oblivious to consequences. I want to be in a comedy, while others demand melodrama. Cross-purposes abound, and I’m flummoxed; that’s the way it goes all the days of my life.

For three weeks, though, I was exempt from my own persona; I slowly took on another. I was still in a farce, but not of my own making. This new play, had four characters, and had been penned by Greg Edwards. He called it “Diplomatic Relations.” It was part of a one-act festival, all entries meeting the same requirement, to be no longer than thirty minutes in length. Each night, at the end of the evening, the audience could vote, foretelling which play would be permitted to go up again.

My part was Mayor Veena Geraldine Hinckle, of Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania, circa 1967. I just had an embassy built, dedicated to Portikrania. All the newspapers had written about it. Tonight was its grand opening. Though I made up the country, my intentions were pure. The coalmines had closed. There was high unemployment. An embassy was what Wilkes Barre needed to jump-start its economy. Tourists would flock to the city spending money on shows, shopping and dining.

I was delusional. My daughter knew it. I believed in my reveries. I calmed her jitters with, “Lots of countries don’t exist. That hasn’t stopped Tibet.” Besides, I wanted to be re-elected.

A young architect, from a Mafia Family, had built the Embassy. He had an honest streak. He could not find Portikrania anywhere on any map. That bothered him. I told him not to worry, that it was, “West of the Afzak Republic. Just below North Portikrania.”

There was also an Inspector in town. He was from the State Department. He was suspicious. There was no record of Portikrania anywhere. His plan was to shut the Embassy down and arrest me. That would not happen on my watch, even if I had to use all my feminine wiles.

I was also in a competitive mode. I wanted to best Nanticoke, our rival city across the Susquehanna River. Their economy was thriving. They had created a recipe for French Toast. Citizens from around the world were clamoring for slices. They had, to fulfill this need, created a mail-order business. It was booming.

In preparation for my role, I became Mayor Veena Geraldine Hinckle the three weeks we rehearsed. I had to compensate for the fact the full cast rarely met. I was there, with the director, but often with just one other cast member.

The Mayor was married, so I donned my mother’s wedding band. She was vain, so I had my nails polished in orange. I bought a hairbrush and hair spray, taming my tresses, no longer with my fingers. I also bought a dress. My first since 1996. I knew the Mayor always wore them.

I cleaned my apartment. The Mayor’s house was in order. Her supporters were always over. She could not afford a mess. She also supplied them with food and drink. I went shopping.

“Diplomatic Relations” opened August 12. We were one of three one acts to go up at 9 PM. We started at 9:30. You were eligible to vote only if you saw all the shows in your evening.

My friends greeted me when I came outside. Harry was certain he had a blood clot in his left leg from sitting so long. He regretted that the nearby hospital, St. Clare’s, had closed. He would be there now. Priscilla told me I was in profile a lot, and I upstaged myself, disappearing behind other actors. Sometimes she could not even hear me. Jerome said the dress I wore made me look like a pencil. Peter said I did not come in fast enough for some cues. Lucy suggested I use large hand gestures to connote my importance. Fred said the piece was a play, with a beginning, middle and end.

We were chosen to perform Monday, August 16, starting at 9:30 again. We were now the second show out of four. We had high energy, fast pacing and we were loud. Still, five audience members left when we finished, friends of one our cast members. They had to be at work early, and consequently they could not vote. My friends stayed. Stephan said he heard my every word. Linda said she laughed a lot. The playwright said, “You translated my writing into farce.”

We lost to the fourth show. That was about prostitution, drug addiction, child rearing, lost romance and indigence. Their supporters stayed until the end. They voted. I went home.

I washed my hair, removed my nail polish, my wedding band, my dress, poured a shot of scotch and ate some cheerios. I wanted to feel a buzz, while keeping my cholesterol in check. I knew it had to have gone up. I mean, a show had won that did not have one laugh.

I fell asleep smiling. I knew I would have lots of laughs tomorrow.

The sign in my local hardware store read, “Never use a hatchet when removing a fly from your friend’s forehead.” I knew that. My tool of choice was a sledgehammer. I had one in my hand — in anticipation of the house-guest who was coming to stay the night.

My friend A was having her apartment painted. It was a big place, and the guy, with roller and brush, was coating the walls all through the night. Her neighbor recommended him, and A knew the catch. He viewed clothing as a hindrance, inhibiting his craft. He willing worked, but he would only work naked.

I grew alarmed waiting for my friend’s arrival. I knew my place was a mess. I lived alone, with my roommate, and was grateful we recently solved our impasse. Since I functioned best in disarray and she demanded order, we both gave up and agreed to live with chaos. Moreover, I had a preference for “people” in general. It was individuals who annoyed.

A was soon knocking at my door. I opened it to, “Just look at the nail on my right index finger. Will you? And I just had a manicure” I said nothing, and let her own this tragedy. She demanded, “Feel it, then you’ll understand why I’m upset.”

“Okay” I replied. “It’s not smooth, but we all have to live with our jagged edges.” She responded. “That’s all I get from you ‘words’ and never sympathy. Now get me a file.”

I found one afloat at the bottom of the sink in the kitchen. “This is damp and without traction” she complained. I answered, “Vanity goeth before the fall.” Then I shoved her into my easy chair and nipped the offending extension with all that I had, a toe-nail clipper.

“See” I said. “That did not hurt at all. Now change the subject.” as hives flaunted their presence in and around my wrists. Then she retired. “I can’t sit up and read in your bed. Your shelf hits my back.” I gave her a screwdriver and told her, “Take it down if you like.”

I was exhausted from conversing, and made my bed atop the living room couch. In the morning, her face appeared like a curous sight, more like seeing a full moon on high, in a sun drenched day. My first words were, “How did you get here” blocking out all that had transpired.

“If that’s how you feel, I’m leaving” and she bolted out the door. I said nothing, wanting no more strife. I had no cream, which she used in her coffee, for I drank mine black.

B was another house-guest. She lived upstate. She’d visit me and also go shopping. Bergdorf Goodman was her domain. She’d hire a personal shopper saying, “I don’t know what I want, but I do know designers have taste.” My home, back she would come, carrying garments by Valentino, Versace and Vera Wang. “Now I shall invoke jealousy.” She claimed. “People shall know I am rich.”

My response, “You’re rich when you spend your time as you like.”

Then she checked my attire — orange tee-shirt, pink pants, yellow vest, green scarf, and straw hat dripping purple plastic grapes. “Stop shopping in the junior department.” She demanded. “Come with me and I’ll have you dressed in black — like an adult.”

I shouted. “Age is measured not in years, but in receptivity to new ideas.”

Then I walked away and seconds later, returned. “Besides, my bright colors have a medicinal effect. My uncle, he’s 96, is thrilled when I visit. With his macular degeneration, he claims I am the only person he can see.”

C stayed with me a few days, too. For forty-five years he taught freshman English in the college that he had attended. Each time he received his salary check, he’d phone. “Another two weeks where I have not touched neither principle nor interest.” That was an easy claim for him. The rent from the first floor apartment of his two-family home, covered all his expenses. They were few. When he bragged, “I always stay within my budget” I told him”That’s going to be your epitaph.”

Then he got cancer and nothing changed, but his health.

On the last day of his stay, I suggested we go to the movies. He went into shock. “I never do that. I watch them only on TV.” While packing his bags, he surmised, “How can you WITHDRAW money from the bank. That is no way to live. Money was made for ‘deposit only.’ ”

My reply, “If I leave it in the bank, I don’t have it. It is I who has to pay the cost of spending time with myself.”

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A woman called. “I’m interested in going to Ellis Island. I know you give an excellent tour, but what I really need is to be in the beginning of the ferry line. Can you do it?” “Yes, I can.” I replied. “But first let me shoot you in your kneecap, so you may join the disabled.” She gasped and I finished with, “Before God and the Department of the Interior, we’re all equal.”

With a single click, the line went dead.

We were traveling south, paralleling the Hudson River. I was mentioning the miles of navigable water, concluding with “this city’s geography created its destiny.” Suddenly, the man-in-charge, jumped up. “Who cares about that. Tell them about the water towers on the roofs, over there.” I said, “You tell them that, since you’re the one who’s so interested.” “Hey” he replied. “I’m the one who paid you.” “Hey,” I answered back, “I’m the one you hired to do the tour.”

That day was the last I saw of him.

I was with middle school children. Everyone’s head was down, text messaging. “Hi.” I began, talking loud. “I’m your tour guide, here to give you a tour.” No one looked at me. I increased my volume and said “sperm.” All heads snapped up. An adult spoke. “Please refrain from all sexual allusions. This is a school trip.” I responded, “There’s nothing I’m going to say that these kids haven’t heard on that TV show, The Simpsons. Besides, get with the program. We’re in New York. No one censures anyone here.”

She told me I was wild.

Holding the itinerary I had just gotten for my tour, I read these few lines, “View Statue of Liberty from land, shop in Saks Fifth Avenue, and photograph the Apollo’s Theater Walk of Fame on 125th Street.” I turned to the travel agent. “I can’t do all this.” “But you must. I promised” she replied. “That’s why you’re here, to make it all happen.” “Look” I reasoned. “I’ve never mastered sleight of hand. I can’t make the traffic disappear, nor reroute the St. Patrick’s Day Parade off of Fifth Avenue.”

“You tell them.” she pleaded. “I can’t.” So I did, with, “You’re all adults. You know daily living brings with it disappointments. So let’s get our groans over with, and begin our tour.”

The travel agent called me “callous.”

On a walking tour of Chelsea, a participant talked nonstop for many minutes into her cell phone. I had to say, “Unless you’re talking to the repair man for your kidney dialysis machine, please hang up.” She was startled. I continued, “Others may want to hear what I have to say, though you apparently do not.”

She did not give me a tip.

Before I started my narration, on a sidewheeler leaving the pier, a woman approached. “I really would like to listen to you, but I can’t. My friend is here and I want to talk to her. Do you have a tape of what you’re going to say? ”I told her, “No. I do not. Even if I did, it would be a sham. I never know what I am going to say.”

She left in a huff.

I was with employees of Prudential Insurance, going to a cocktail party, inside their unfinished corporate tower at South Street Seaport. As we drew close, I said, “This polished gray granite façade, with these small windows, gives the building a prison-like feel.” A diminutive fellow, screeched, “I am a VP. If you knew how much money we spent on this, you’d never say what you did?” “Oh yes I would” I countered. “I know money does not bring taste.”

He rode back to the hotel on a different coach.

In front of me were overweight teenagers, spending a summer day in New York, a trip sponsored by their upstate weight loss camp. Yet wherever we went, all they did was buy cookies. I reminded them of their battle with their pounds and assured them they would leave FATTER today than when they arrived; they reported me for using that word.

May be if I grew up in the West, when it was wild, when everyday people shot off their guns, and not their mouths, I would have developed differently, especially with the invention of the “silencer.” Maybe if I lived in the South, with a mamma who reminded me daily, “Mind your manners” I would have never heard, “Being with you is like being with a live nerve ending.” Maybe if I lived where there were few people, I would have refrained speaking my mind, desperate for friends, never wanting to offend.

This, though, was not the case.

One incident in my childhood foretold my future. My mother asked me to make my bed. I told her, “It’s a waste of energy. I’m only going to get back in there later.”

She stood there in the door frame, with lips pursed. Then she said, “I see your point” and turned and left.

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I was standing on the corner of 116th Street, dripping wet. The temperature hovered around 100 degrees. I had just walked through the sprinkler in the playground in Morningside Park. I was on the look out for Pamela.

She e-mailed me. “Does your fee fluctuate according to how many you guide?” “No,” I replied, “I’m like a surgeon; I charge the same regardless of the size of the appendix.”

“Great” she said. “I’ll invite twenty of my family and friends.” Then she asked what my favorite neighborhood was, I said, “When whoever is with me is laughing, curious and has pep.”

She chose Harlem.

Pamela appeared with bags of cold water. She was going to give them out to everyone in her party. She even had nametags. Today was a day to stay indoors. Warnings were all over the TV and the radio. Yet seventeen stalwarts soon surrounded us. There were only three no-shows.

Everyone took small steps. I stopped only when I found shade. To a one, every time we congregated this is what I heard. “It’s hot. It’s very hot. It’s really hot.” These words were said is if all were actors in a Greek Chorus, with no intention of moving the plot, only to stall it. The heat had joined me on the stage.

I said, “I’m hot. You’re hot. We’re all hot. This is summer. Stop taking the weather personally.”

All of us were descendants of cave men, showing no respect for our ancestors. They went about their business in all types of weather. Yet we, their progency, had grown soft from pleasure and comfort, out of shape with any temperature we could not control.

My group’s discomfort reminded me of another time and another tour. I was with insurance agents. They had won a trip to New York City. They were here for four days and then we were to travel on motor coach to Mohonk Mountain House for three.

That was a hotel, built atop the Shawangunk Ridge, finished in 1869. It was ninety miles north of the city, in New Paltz. This Victorian pile was a sole survivor of a bygone era, when other hotels, of similar size and purpose, were located nearby.

Gazing at the water of the distant Hudson River was a reason to visit, also to glimpse the Catskill Mountain Range. There were winding trails in a pristine forest — terrain not altered by man’s whim. Such scenery extolled nature, my group would approve, but the hotel itself, according to the needs of my “winners,” suffered from two liabilities.

The founders, twin Quaker brothers, were temperance advocates. The still family owned inn, acquiesced only in 1960 and acquired a liquor license; room service lagged behind. There was no alcohol on its menu, while I knew my insurance executives were drinkers.

I could fix that; I could go to a liquor store while still in Manhattan. Yet none of the hotel rooms had air conditioners. That was my issue. I was certainly not stopping at an appliance store and dragging those up. I already heard complaints of “sweating” on a motor coach with a new cooling system. Would they understand they needed to open the hotel room windows to feel nature’s natural breezes?

We did stop at an uptown liquor store. A clerk behind bulletproof glass, along with his entire stock, and two German Shepherds, gave us what we wanted. Everyone exited with smiles, not noticing the broken air conditioner on the sidewalk.

Back in Harlem, I was standing on the third step of the staircase to the second floor entrance of “Cooper’s Funeral Home” I watched as Pamela plus her seventeen used white handkerchiefs she had brought for them, to remove dew from their faces, necks and back. They seemed like flags of surrender; in this battle, Nature had won.

I heard one woman say to another, “Not to brag, but my son was one of the producers of the film ‘American Gangster. ’ It had its opening here.” The other woman replied, “Not to brag, my son has an easy job with the Department of Defense. He does nothing for four days a week and makes a ton of money.”

I kept on going. “The undertaker saved this turn of the century brownstone from the wrecker’s ball.”

Then I screamed. “Only when you’re laid out cold, do you not feel hot. Remind yourself that, as long as you’re breathing, you have to adapt.”

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I asked my father while he was in the hospital, “Am I still chasing my tail.” He accused me of that. Now that he was on his way out, I needed to know. His brown eyes opened, “No. You are not. You’re a beautiful actress.”

He never told me that. He just wanted me to want something, to get direction. I was aging, and still living my life without a plan.

Twenty years before my father telling me who he thought I was, I graduated acting school. The admininistrator’s final words were, “You’re a natural.” I doubted his impression.

I took scene-study classes. My teachers would say, “If you want it, you could be working.” I listened, more confused than ever. Even after a two-day acting intensive, with the acting coach taking me aside, “All you need is within you.” I was lost. I had no idea what she was talking about.

I studied improvisation, stand up comedy, and how to write a one-person show. I was a member of a theater workshop, writing and performing. I took classes in playwriting, acted in a fifteen-minute play, and in a solo piece. Yet I never submitted any of my work to any publications and I auditioned, only three times, all in 1979.

Here it was July 13, 2010. I was opening the door to a rehearsal studio, looking for Polly. She had e-mailed me, “There’s this character in this play that I am producing. You’re a perfect fit. It’s non-union. The setting is 1967; the role is Veena Geraldine Hinckle, Mayor of Wilkes Barre, Pa. Come and audition.”

There was no sign-in sheet when I arrived and no lines around the block. I was the only actor in evidence, when the director, Holly, appeared. She handed me a “side” — a section of the play where my character was prominent.

In one scene, Veena interacted with Tony, a Mafia connected architect, who she hired to build an embassy for a non-existent country. In another, Veena was talking with Westwood, a federal agent there specifically to shut down this embassy.

My reason to be at the audition had a similar ring to another time. That was when I was driving a black Lincoln Towne car, up a hill, through hairpin curves, following other vehicles on a fall foliage tour. I had three passengers inside. Volunteering to drive, though accident-prone, was a decision I made to prove a point. I wanted to see if I would crash. I did not. I felt redeemed, capable of moving a car about on a road without incident.

Now I was auditioning. This was not because it was an opportunity to act, but more like one to uncover if I would hyperventilate or feel like I was about to pass out. I did not. This became clear, what I needed to try out for a role was desire, and then behavior follows.

My mother, and she never knew it, brought me back into acting. She had dementia. She no longer spoke. With her husband and son deceased, I was it as far as family members went. In the beginning, I resented her needing me. I was not there. In time, when I saw she was sick, I assumed the mantle of insuring her welfare.

She communicated only through music. She sang lyrics from old songs. I took voice lessons to learn to sing to her. I was taught how to sing on pitch. And I wrote, for there I was watching my mother slowly slip from my grasp.

When I got an e-mail from a theater company wondering if I had any short material I wanted to perform, I turned to what I had written about my mother. The evening of my play, I met Polly. She was acting in a two character skit. I never saw her after that, so when I got her e-mail I was taken aback.

Yesterday was the first rehearsal for “Diplomatic Relations.” I got the part of the Mayor. I think no one else tried out. As far as the cast goes, I am Grandma Moses in a sea of Lord and Lady Gaga’s.

Our play is part of the Strawberry One-Act Festival, at the Theater at St. Clement’s Church, 423 West 46th Street. We go up August 12, in Series B, beginning at 9 PM. We may close that night as well.

There are different one-acts for several evenings, each with a life span subject to the whim of audience members. They vote. If our play proves popular, we perform August 16 and maybe August 20; eventually one plays wins out.

I shall be carrying the script wherever I go. I procrastinate, learn my lines at the last minute. I don’t want to that this time. I will be talking to myself in a city wherever one does that.

That is not to say I am an actor, yet.

My marketing teacher began the class with these words, “If everyone likes you, you’re doing something wrong.” He looked at the ten women in front of him. “That’s a hard concept for women to digest. They want to be liked.”

He ended the class with these words, “ If you need a role model, think Howard Stern. He’s a brilliant marketer. That radio jock consistently shocks. That’s his strength, and he knows how to play to it.”

I found this class through reading an article in the New York Times, a few weeks after 9/11. A consulting firm was offering a workshop, gratis, to any small business owner needing help. Come to the New York Sheraton Ballroom: learn where to apply for a business loan, how to write a business plan, and which professional organization can offer you the most help.

Once there, I spoke to an interviewer. I explained I was a free-lance tour guide, the sole proprietor of my business. She told me to call the American Women’s Economic Development Corporation, or AWED. It specialized in assisting women like me.

I joined. I attended their classes, the marketing one, and others specializing in public relations, inquiry letters, cold calls, pitching your service, and developing an e-mail blitz. I also went to every brown bag lunch offered and met other members.

It was through AWED I had my photo taken with President Bush. Forty-two of us were invited to a two day conference at the Ronald Reagen Center in Washington, DC. It was entitled “Women Owners of Small Businesses.”

A small business, to the organizers, was defined as one with yearly grosses of five million dollars or less. None of us qualified, yet there was no charge for our meals, our transportation and our hotel rooms. The CEO of AWED was a big Republican supporter.

We arrived Friday evening. We were staying in Georgetown. Saturday morning, at 10 AM, we were ushered into into a private room at the Center, with one stipulation, enter empty-handed.

Secret Service agents were everywhere. We lined up, according to height. I was in the last row, second to last. I was staring at the man with the camera, when doors opened horizontally, and out walked, from a cargo elevator, President Bush. He smiled, saying “How ya’ all doin’?” Then he mingled amongst us and the shutter clicked. That’s when an agent announced “Go ahead. Ask the President any question.”

My hand flew up. I was fast, and I was already too late. Another woman was speaking. “I sell Oriental rugs of the finest quality. I had a sale. I sent an e-mail to the White House. I never heard back. Could you please explain why?”

The President professed having no knowledge; certain that what she spoke of, was his secretary’s domain.

I spoke next. “I am a tour guide in New York. Tourists are not flying here. They’re afraid of crashing into a skyscraper with a tank full of gas. How do I convince them, this is folly?”

The President replied, “Tell them to come without fear. We’ll be here, ready. If anyone starts trouble, we’ll just kick ass.”

The other day, that marketing class came to mind. I was giving a tour to four men, one from Egypt, another from Qatar, a Lebanese, and Ludwig, a German, the one in charge. They worked for Hewlett Packard, or HP, and on the company’s money, we traveled around in a stretch limousine.

Ludwig asked, “Take a guess. How many people do you think work for us?” I answered, “Eleven.” His eyes rolled back. “It’s obvious you don’t know what you’re talking about. There are more than 330,000 in our employ.”

He asked, “How much money do you think we make?” I blurted, “A zillion dollars, at least. ” He sighed. “You have no head for business” and reeled off a dollar amount in the billions.

“Look” I said. “I know HP only through my Laser Jet 1100 printer, and that’s given me nothing but trouble. From the start, paper came down in clumps, not one at a time. I joined a class action suit. Your technicians came up with a cardboard contraption and we all got one in the mail. I inserted mine, per your directions, and still ‘clumping’ appeared, just less often.”

During our six hour tour, Ludwig repeated, “You walk too fast. Stay with the group. You follow our pace, not the other way around. That is what a guide does. I’ve been to eighty countries. I know what I am saying. ”

Suddenly, words uttered directly to me by that marketing teacher, resonated through my brain. “Yes, you are in a service industry, but in your case, you provide service with an edge.”

So I played to my strength. I walked on ahead.

I was a social science editor at Random House, there when the Syracuse based publisher, L.W. Singer, became part of our division. Toni Morrison, a Singer employee, was working now at 200 East 50th Street, on the same floor I was, as an editor of English textbooks. She was also writing her own book, “The Bluest Eye.”

Ms. Morrison was an adept editor, that I knew. I also knew I was not. I was too self-referencing to master the skill, unwilling to surrender my ego to words written by another; whenever I edited, I rewrote until my voice was heard on the page.

My present job, like all the others, held my interest one day a week. After Monday, I strolled in at 11. I‘d make phone calls or I’d cubicle hop, visiting anyone who would have me. Everyone thought I was Bennett Cerf’s relative. He owned the company. That was the only plausible excuse for my name still being on the payroll.

Only the self-employed would understand. When I didn’t like what I was doing, I didn’t do it. I never made the connection. I had already written my epitaph — here lies someone whose work never worked out.

Looking out the window, waiting for others to board the plane that would travel from London to New York, a boarding pass led a lanky man to claim the aisle seat next to mine. I smiled and went back to reading, “Hot Numbers Made Easy.” I was busy adding up the numerical value of each of the letters of my name as they appeared on my birth certificate. This number, assured the book’s author, was the pathway to uncover your identity; and all I knew about myself was my name.

With seat belts strapped, we took off. Then suddenly the arms of the stranger began to flail. He said, “I see from what you read you’re interested in paranormal psychology” “Yes I am.” I said. “I’ll pursue anything that cannot be proven. I’m so sick of the scientific method.”

“Well then, I have a palm reader for you. Her name is Asia. She works at the Scheherazade Room at 63rd and First. She told me, at my reading, I was getting a divorce. I wasn’t then and now I am. Amazing, isn’t it.”

Once home, I made an appointment to see Asia. I left a note behind the rotary dial of my phone, “At palm reader.” I was young, four years at the same job, still believing telling the truth had no bad consequences.

It was 2 PM. Asia was sitting, shoulders back, head held high, behind a table with a linen cloth in a nightclub that opened to the public at 6 PM. She wore a gold lame turban with gold hoop earrings. Her lipstick was drawn above her natural lip line. In circles on both of her facial cheeks were spots of rouge. Her skin was flawless.

She was petting a Siamese cat. He lay there, purring, on her lap. She smiled. I saw she was missing several teeth.

She saw me stare. She said, “My gums receded when I got addicted to smack. I was in Katmandu. My teeth are still killing me. That’s where I picked up the habit and got my name. I’m off it now. My boss, her name is Shirley, wants no drug addicts on the job. Big deal, it was only heroin. I don’t understand. Everyone’s on something. I have to make another appointment to see the dentist. Your teeth fall out when you’re on drugs. Shirley never gave me one red cent for my habit. Why is she bellyaching? I had to detoxify. I kept on hearing “Sweet Alabama” that Allman Brothers song. Was it real, was I hallucinating. Oh no, I can feel another tooth is loose. See this space over here, three teeth gone, $600. The dentist just yanked them out with his fingers. It would have been cheaper if they landed on my pillow. I have to save for a bridge. Shirley says a smile gets you clients. I have a second job, tarot card reading at the Gypsy Tea Leaf. Know it? Shirley keeps saying, ‘You’re twice as old as half those girls.’ What does she know. I work more hours than all of them and all they do is yawn. I’m on uppers. Don’t tell anybody. Okay, let me see your palms.”

She studied my hands. “Oh my, your right hand has a career line, from one end to the other, seen in books. But you have no discipline. You’re lazy. You never make your bed. That’s it. Call me when you want another appointment.”

Back at the office my boss had written “See me” at the bottom of the note I had left. He closed his door as I entered. “The guys upstairs want you fired. I can’t protect you any longer.”

I put my hand on his shoulder, I said, “There are few times when one gets what one deserves. This is one of them.”

Then I wrote a farewell note, distributed it to everyone on the floor. I admitted my termination was fair and true. When I dropped one off on Toni Morrison’s desk, she didn’t look up. She was busy editing; and I was busy thinking whether Asia meant hospital corners when she told me to start making my bed.

I graduated from the American Academy of Dramatic Arts (AADA)evening division in 1979. It was a two-year program, located at 31st Street and Madison Avenue. Years before it was the Colony Club, designed by the architect, Stanford White.

The summer of 1977, I had gone to their six-week daytime summer school program. I was the oldest by years among high school students. My scene-study teacher suggested I attend acting school at night, since I was already laden with degrees, and “you don’t have that much to learn.” I registered for the fall session.

This was the second time someone had told me acting was for me.

In 1975, I was in the Personnel Office, not Human Resources way back then, of a publishing concern. The woman interviewing me exclaimed, “I don’t understand why you’re applying for the job of secretary to the controller, in the accounting division. That’s not a job for you. You’re an actor.”

How did she know that? I was in one play once, speaking one line once, in one high school production. Besides, Oscar Wilde had proclaimed, “People who know themselves are shallow.” Since I hadn’t a clue as to whom I was, I thought that meant I had depth.

My prospective boss, as it turned out, wanted to see me. He offered me the job. I lasted two years working in a profession that I had no aptitude for, typing ninety words a minute, eighty being undecipherable. Moreover, I had no idea being a secretary meant being the boss’s confidante.

I had a big mouth.

Despite my adult age, and growing up in New York City, I was naïve. I was the issue of a man who appeared every night for dinner. I was now working for a married man who was dating other women. He took long lunch breaks, left work early or never showed up at all. He whiled away his time at Plato’s Retreat, a heterosexual swap club in the Ansonia Hotel. It was easy to figure out: I listened at the door.

Besides, so many women were calling him, with the same medical problem. They all had asthma, breathlessly asking for him as I transferred the call to his line, staying long enough to hear his, “I’ll be there shortly” to each of their entreaties. Then he left the office. It was anyone’s guess when he would return, which was what I said whenever anyone asked his whereabouts.

While there, I took a three-week vacation to Yugoslavia. I was not attracted to my boss, but the decrepit Marshall Tito intrigued me. He was moving slower, and dying his hair dark brown weekly. I knew his game. He was trying to fool his populace into thinking he was immortal. He was on his way out and I wanted to visit his country before he passed.

The wife of one of the men I worked with was a travel agent. She booked me on a three-week tour, which turned out had only two other particpants, two females traveling together. I had a lot of fun with each of them. They were both alcoholics.

When I returned to New York, one of the women sent me $330 for my birthday. I received the check just when my boss was showing me the door. With this unexpected cash, I decided to take acting classes. I chose AADA, because of cost, their summer school was $330.00.

When I graduated the evening school, I went to three auditions, one a month, for three months. After each audition I sought out inebriation, wanting to anesthetize myself from the experience. I felt rejected, this sensation, in part, was brought on by myself. I could not remember my audition monologue, the tool to get me inside the theater door. Yet I knew it cold at home, the words draining out of me, I guess, as I marched towards the subway.

Three times, I stared at a casting agent, uttering not a sound to the same inquiry, “So what do you have for me today?”My head was empty.

My cousin, a doctor, suggested “beta blockers.” He said something like, “You’re nervous. Your anxiety causes a “black out.” I fixed that. I never auditioned again. The experience registered as “vile.” I wanted “swell” from that day forward, as if, within me, was the power to control my reactions to whatever faced me.

Five days ago, I received an e-mail. A small, fledgling theater company wanted me to audition for a ten-minute play. The character was the female mayor of Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania. She had built a fake embassy “to lure tourists to her city; however, when the State Department and local mafia got involved, her scheme exploded into a comedy of Pennsylvanian proportions.”

I called. I heard a voice on the line say, “Is 8 PM okay?”

“Sure,” I said “that’ll be swell.”