Broadway Binge Buddies
90 minutes with a new theater pal.
It’s always around this time, right after the Tony Awards and before my birthday, that I get bit by a Broadway bug. I’m swept up in the impractical desire to see every possible Broadway show I can afford. Of course, theater tickets are astronomically expensive, but I still manage to splurge on a few ("it’s my birthday!) Going to the theater is one of the greatest pleasures of living in New York City. And in a world that feels inches away from becoming an AI hellscape, live theater feels like a fleeting, transformative, IRL experience.
On Tuesday evening, my husband and I saw the magnificent Kimberly Akimbo and I still can’t stop singing the song, “Better.” (My fave version is this one from NPR’s Tiny Desk concerts.) It was the cast’s first show after the Tonys; what a thrill to see the audience on its feet for a full five minutes before the show even started, cheering on Best Actress in a Musical winner Victoria Clark, as she stood impossibly stony-faced before our wild cheers. (Acting!) I can’t recommend this show enough — a heartwarming, tearjerking gem, set in 1999 Bergen County NJ, about a 16-year-old girl with a disease that causes her to age prematurely. It focuses on a lot of the themes we talk about here on TueNight, in particular, seizing life “by the balls” at any age.
The next day, for a Wednesday matinee, I had tickets to see Prima Facie, which I kept calling Prima Fauci, so I had to learn how to pronounce the term: pree-muh fay-shee. It’s a legal term meaning “based on a first impression.” Friends kept urging me to see actor Jodie Comer’s mesmerizing, gut-wrenching performance about sexual assault. I knew this wouldn’t be an easy watch. So I went, even though I was still on a high from Akimbo and a friend who was supposed to go with me canceled (for a good reason).
I sort of relished the idea of seeing a performance by myself, smack dab in the middle of the week, in the middle of the day. Imagining myself sitting in a darkened theater felt luxurious, if a tiny bit lonely.
But then, as I was in line, an older woman (well, older than me!) with a pronounced limp leaned in and asked if I happened to have an extra ticket. She’d been at the show last week when Comer had a Canadian wildfire smoke-induced coughing fit on stage and told the audience she couldn’t continue. (Dramatic!) If I understood this woman right, Phyllis (we’ll call her Phyllis) took a refund and decided to come back to try her luck.
“I do have a ticket!” I said.
“How much?” she asked.
“Uhhh…” I’d already mentally spent this money so anything was a bonus. “50 dollars?”
“GREAT!” She handed me a crisp $50 bill. She was ready.
“You’ll be sitting with me,” I smiled.
“Also great!” said Phyllis.
An older couple in front of us were obviously eavesdropping and fully turned around to find out where the seats were. The man gestured at Phyllis. “Good seats!” And kinda looked at me skeptically as if to say, “You do NOT know the value of a Broadway seat.”
“I usually try to get a comfortable seat,” Phyllis leaned in. “And it’s even more important now; I just had a stroke. I fell out of my bed which was worse than the stroke, I really injured myself. But they got me to the hospital within an hour. You know you have to get to the hospital within an hour.”
“Well I think these seats might be pretty roomy — they’re right next to the handicapped section, you know, like where an assistant might sit?” I immediately wished I could yank the words out of my mouth.
“Disabled,” she offered kindly. “We like to say disabled.”
“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” I responded sheepishly. “I don’t even know where that word came from. Like 1975, maybe?”
She laughed. “It’s ok.”
Our seats were excellent: Orchestra left, just ten rows back. I fumbled in my bag for my requisite gum, Ricola and water because I am constantly coughing in old dusty theaters — or, at least, panicking at the possibility. Phyllis pulled out a half-eaten protein bar and said, “I’m sorry I don’t have anything of sustenance to give you — would you like the rest of my power bar?”
I was so touched by her gesture, like we were two refugees in the last place on earth. I politely declined, unwrapping a Ricola.
As we dined on our pre-theater snacks, we got to know each other a little better. We talked about where we live, what we ddo for work. Phyllis, who is 72, owns her own business and sells diamonds. (My Prima Facie was not that!)
Phyllis told me how she blocks her calendar every Wednesday for a few hours (“to avoid any raised eyebrows”) in case she wants to run down the street and see a matinee. She usually does rush tickets, or sometimes waits in line like she had that day.. “The ushers know me. And when I used to walk with a cane, they would snag me a great seat,” she said.
That reminded me of going to the United State of Women Summit several years ago. I was recovering from cancer and using a wheelchair, and it was strange to have the seas parted for me, but also to be looked on with pity.
I told Phyllis that I’d had cancer and she wanted to know every detail. “What kind was it? How did you find it?” I never mind talking about it even though I never have any answers about how to prevent it.
As we chatted Phyllis interjected to ask, what was I doing after the show? For a minute I wondered if Phyllis wanted to grab lunch, keep our new friendship going. I told her I had to go back to work. “Busy day.” She quickly responded that she did too. “Me, too. Busy here, too.”
Perhaps Phyllis didn't actually plan on asking me to lunch. Or maybe she did? I started feeling guilty for shutting down the possibility. Why wouldn’t I just keep our mutual day of hooky going? Get to know someone new? For some reason I just wanted to set a boundary, preserve Phyllis as a memory in this very New York moment. But what if I had said yes?
We were hot in the throes of discussion when the curtain came up. Phyllis and I were still talking as the crowd jumped to their feet, just as they had for Kimberly Akimbo. But this time the lead actress, Comer, didn’t pause for her Best Actress in a Drama accolades, instead she launched right into her 90-minute solo performance.
Save for the unwrapping of snacks and slurps of water, Phyllis and I were rapt. I still can’t believe what I watched Comer do — the taxing, athletic job of a solo performance, jumping up and down off a desk, moving her own set around, speaking nearly non-stop at full volume — for a story that left Comer drained and solemn in her final bow.
As the house lights came up, I looked around at the mostly white-haired people in this Wednesday matinee audience and felt my place in the crowd, forgetting for a minute that I, too, am now white-haired.
As we got up and started to exit the theater, Phyllis turned and shook my hand heartily.
“Thank you, you made my week.”
And just as I was saying, “See you at the next matinee!….” Phyllis had sped up the aisle, ahead of the crushing crowd.
Such a great story, Margit!
Love this story!