Crybaby
He didn’t know he was going to outgrow it.
After his mother met with his third grade teacher, she shared with him the salient parts; he was doing fine academically, was well liked by his peers and was passionate about gym. If he applied that same passion to his schoolwork, he could be one of the top kids in the class. He processed this, and as he did , he realized his mommy wasn’t done. His teacher told her that when she spoke sternly to him, he always looked like he was going to cry. Upon hearing this, those dreaded emotions—shame, embarrassment and mortification—began gnawing. He so wanted not to cry. He tried so hard not to cry.
A cryer is what he was. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do. He ran to his room. Dove on to his bed with the cowboy motif headboard and buried his head under the Lone Ranger pillow and cried and cried and cried. Why did his mommy even tell him this? She of all people knew best that he was a crybaby. For chrissakes, he cried every time she yelled, spoke sternly or just gave him a look.
Perhaps, it was wishful thinking on his Mommy’s part that by telling him he would be so mortified and never cry again. Or perhaps she was so mortified that she couldn’t stop herself. Or, perhaps, a combination of the two. He was tortured by the crying. He didn’t know he was going to outgrow it.
With one exception. For several years after his father died, he couldn’t talk about him without crying. Nor could his sisters. Rather than talk about him and cry, they rarely talked about him at all. His mommy could go on ad nauseam about his father without shedding so much as a single tear. When asked why she didn’t cry, she said, of course she cries but does it in private. He, too, cried when he was alone. He’s pretty sure his sisters did, too. Today, he regrets that they never cried together as a family. Cried their hearts out.
Flash forward to the summer of 2018.
He was attending the New York Playwriting Festival award ceremony in New York City. His play Botanic Garden was nominated for Best Play. He knew he had a good chance of winning. Just the week before, the festival director called to ask if he was going to be there. He said he didn’t know. The festival director reminded him there was a $2,500 prize. There was a catch; you had to be there in person to claim the dough. He wanted to ask if the award was in the bag. He didn’t. But why would he call if it wasn’t?
He was genuinely happy when Botanic Garden won the award for Best Play. When he went on stage to accept the award, he was unsure what he was going to say. He can’t remember what he said. Nevertheless, he’s convinced himself what he said was completely non-sensical.
He’s right. He told an audience filled with playwrights that he didn’t start writing plays until 46. He then said it was never too late for them to become playwrights, too.
After the ceremony, he went to his favorite restaurant, Café Luxembourg, and treated himself to the Luxemburger and a hot fudge sundae. He and his three sisters once scarfed eight Café Luxembourg hot fudge sundaes. They are that good.
The next morning he took the Acela train to Washington DC. His play, Defamation, was touring and he wanted to catch up with the troupe and see a few shows. While on the train, he had plenty of time to think about Botanic Garden and the award. The play was first produced in Chicago in 2008. Yes, it’s true, Olympia Dukakis really did direct. That’s a story for another day.
Ok. Here’s a quick one. Browbeating him about rewrites was Olympia’s favorite past-time. One time she snapped, “I’ve worked on more new plays than you’ve had hot lunches.” Instead of revising, he tried to compile a mental list of childhood hot lunches.
He called his mommy. Between the two of them, they recounted about a dozen different hot lunches he was served on the regular, including the obvious – all things Campbell’s, grilled cheese, mac ‘n cheese, pizza and hot dogs. The next day, Joe Foust, a very fine Chicago actor, sidled up to him and said, “Hey pal, I’ve had more hot sex than you’ve had hot lunches.”
On the train, he composed an email to his three children sharing the good news. He also decided to copy many friends and colleagues who had long been supportive of his playwriting. Or so he’s been led to believe.
A deluge of emails followed. “Wow! Is that who I think it is?”
It took great concentration to upload the names. He was exhausted. After pushing “send,” he closed his laptop and napped. When he woke up, there were scores of congratulatory responses. He was energized. He read and responded like a machine until he opened the email from the only famous writer he knew.
Not kidding. Very famous. Like one of her books shows up on those best of all time lists. He personally didn’t know her. Years earlier, a mutual friend sent her Botanic Garden to read. She wrote him a lovely note. And, yes, before he added her email to the list, he paused. Why would she care?
He knew she wouldn’t. He knew from his Hollywood sister that celebrities only want to hear from other celebrities.
He got his just desserts.
The famous writer’s email read, “Will someone get me off this fucking thread?”
“Oh shit,” he said loud enough for those nearby to hear him. Instead of BCCing, he had CCed everyone.
A deluge of emails followed. “Wow! Is that who I think it is?”
Every ten letters or so, the very famous writer responded, “Yeah, it is. Now fuck off!”
If this was happening to someone else he would have been amused. But it was happening to him. He was upset. No, he wasn’t going to cry. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. He wasn’t a crybaby anymore. By the time his train pulled into the station, his emotions had subsided. Of course they had. He was grown-ass 64-year-old man. Everyone makes mistakes.
As for the very famous writer, he decided she was just being an entitled jerk and was confident everyone would agree.
When he walked into the hotel, his mood was bright. His confidence had returned to its set point. A solid seven.
In the lobby, several Defamation actors eagerly approached him. So nice to be respected and liked by his cast. So nice to have a touring play. To be totally frank, just so nice to be him.
Well, maybe not.
They rushed towards him because they wanted to know if the author who wrote, “Someone get me off this fucking email thread,” was, indeed the real, very famous writer. They wanted to know how he knew her. What was she like? Might she be coming to see them in Defamation?
“What’s she like?” Are you fucking kidding me?
That was a bridge too far. He left them in the dust. Hustled to the elevator. Made a beeline to his room, collapsed on the bed. He so wished he still cried. He really could go for a good cry. He thought about the very famous writer. Why do horrible people do horrible things? He wondered if that might be the title for a book.
He thought about his 4th grade teacher. What was the point of even telling his mother that business of sometimes he looked as if he was going to cry? Does that even come under her purview? His youngest daughter teaches public school kindergarten. He decided he would ask her when he got home.
Do You Know This Man?: An Irreverent Memoir, is an ongoing exploration of the one character who eludes, confounds and mystifies. Me. Right now, it’s available for free, including being able to listen to some of my plays and dive into the best of Sportscape Magazine.
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Another very enjoyable read. Thanks!