My wife and I finally broke out of our
routine about three weeks ago on a Monday night and went on a date to see a one-woman
off-off Broadway show called “Grapefruit,” which was about a
woman's experience with a tumor the size of one of those special
fruits. The sobering subject of the play notwithstanding, I was
reminded of why I love to live near New York City.
While driving into the city on the West
Side Highway, I finally was stopped at a traffic light for the first
time in the 50s and looked over to my right to see two guys riding on
a bicycle built for two. The person in front sat on seat that was
the normal height. However, the rear of the bike had been modified so
that the seat for the rider in the back was about six feet in the
air, meaning the rider was sitting high in the air pedaling away. I
had never seen anything quite like it, and the only thing that could
have made it better would have been if the one in back had been
wearing a Roman gladiator helmet with flashing lights on it. Seeing
this erased the pain of the $12.50 toll we paid to get into the city
across the George Washingtong Bridge, named after our first president
whom I've just recently been made aware was apparently found tebowing
at Valley Forge and the scene was painted in a famous oil painting
that will remain into perpetuity.
The Stage Left theater where
“Grapefruit” was being performed was on 30th Street, and after a
couple of laps around the block we found free on-street parking, a sign that it
will be a good night. The theater turned out to be on the 6th floor
of a building that required guests to be buzzed in to the building.
This was another first. An older man joined us as we went through the
door. He was tanning-lotion gold and wearing boots that looked just
like Prince's that he wore on the purple motorcycle in Purple
Rain. We all made it in to the
elevator, which seemed to be at least 60 years old, maybe more. The ornate door
slid all the way across the entryway to shut. There was a
considerable delay and the elevator needed two attempts to shut “automatically.” I started looking for the inspection
certificate to see if it was up-to-date. I did not find one.
“Have
you ever been on this elevator before?” I asked the man.
“Lots
of times,” he said. “Oh, I've been stuck on this elevator so many
times!” He shook his head and laughed, unfazed by the door do-over
and that his floor didn't light up when M pushed the button for it.
We
arrived at Stage Left on the sixth floor and a young lady had to open
the elevator door from her side to let us off. We emerged unscathed
into the “theater” with seating for about 25 on what was
obviously a converted apartment floor. We were on the guest list, so
we got a program and made our way to two open seats together right in
front of the stage in the first row. (There were only two rows.)
Before
the show started, I had to go to the bathroom, but had a hard time
finding the light switch. I looked around inside the bathroom. Not
there. Outside the bathroom . . . hmm. After a while, I finally found
it. It must have been installed by a tall electrician because it was
at forehead level on me. Who puts light switches at forehead level? The original
family at this apartment must have been really tall. But I had light,
so I lifted the lid with my foot as I always do in public restrooms
and was on my way.
To be continued.