Sometimes, I remember the arduous acting gigs I’ve pulled off (forgive me if I’ve already written about this), and try to recall what drove me. When I did my one-woman show, I schlepped the largest set piece (a four-by-four map on foamcore piece wrapped in black hefty bags) on my back. When I walked down subway stairs, it was light enough to catch the wind, and flapped like a pair of retarded wings, smacking commuters willy-nilly. I would also have a canvas bag of props, costumes, and whatever food I needed that day. On a trip like this, I’m invariably late, tired, and perspiring. For one particular gig, I had to transfer to the L train, full of Williamsburg hipsters, and yet somehow, finally, found a seat, but no sooner did I settle in then my orange for lunch popped out of my bag. Each time I reached for it, it rolled a little bit farther from my grasp, literally as if someone was tugging on it at the other end. Every time I passed a new set of hipsters, they would laugh. It rolled the entire length of the car before finally stopping in front of the last seat.


It stopped in front of Jovinna, this actress I had done a show with and whom I hadn’t laid eyes on in years.

“Oh hey, what’s up.”

I told this story at work and my co-workers called me Ally McBeal. I am lucky in that I do get random (though infrequent) moments of magical realism in my ordinary comings and goings.

This is not a piece that will end with me saying I’m going back to acting.

Ha ha!

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