Through the Looking Glass

     “Oh my goodness, I got it!  Honestly, I didn’t want to say anything but this has been bothering me the whole flight.  I finally figured out who you look like! You’re not going to believe this, but…well, actually, wait a minute… my husband will definitely agree.  Michael! Michael!!” Michael was sitting in the middle seat and now slowly pulling out his ear buds, discreetly sighing while licking and then pursing his lips.  It was as if he needed a few more seconds to decide which direction to take.  Right, into saying he was annoyed or left to smile at a complete stranger.  Michael wisely chose left, and this meant both were intently staring at me.  “You see it too, right, honey? It’s just unbelievable. Oh my God.  YOU know who I’m gonna say, right Michael?”  They both nodded in agreement then turned back to me in choreographed unison:  “You look JUST like…” 

     This spectacle of illusion seems based merely on small things.  Maybe just a few features or gestures we may share.  It’s as if people’s brains seem to latch onto one part of someone they see, and then neurons fire and snap their way to find an instantaneous memory match.  While my curly hair, long neck, front teeth, hips, and close set eyes make for a great caricature, I guess each on their own connects us to thousands.  Put a few together and you’ve got a winner!  Or, an inappropriate moment of profiling.

     We were on a plane from Iceland to Boston with this friendly woman in the window seat leaning half way across her husband’s lap, beseeching me to agree about her new found doppelgänger.  This turn of events was awkward.  We were already in astoundingly close range with absolutely no leg room to spare. 

     I hate those weird, intimate moments when strangers have their faces too close to you and everyone pretends it’s perfectly ok.   It’s like that creepy moment in the dentist chair when the tools are in your mouth but her face is air-grazing yours as she works. Or even worse, when during your eye exam you can feel your optometrist breathing on your cheekbone.  We seem to socialize and accept this awkward, public arrangement, but it’s just not something I figured in while flying in the friendly skies.  Perhaps it’s possible this awkward phenomenon of public trust is centered on leaning back in chairs.  At an altitude of a gazillion somewhere over the Atlantic, here was this married couple gawking at my every feature discerning how familiar I look.  To be honest, I’m sort of used to it.

     I have a very unique name as a woman but apparently people think I am lots of other people.  It’s been the same, few famous people, for decades now.  What’s funny is there seems to be a local version and the famous versions.  Locally, people stop me all the time to ask if I am “Toni” or confuse me with her in public settings.  Ironically, Toni happens to be yet another woman here where I live with a man’s name but also a well-known non-profit agency director with a very public, community persona. There is truly nothing about us that really look alike.  Trust me.  For the life of me I can’t see what they see, but it has been happening to me for over twenty years now, so some part of it must be true.  I doubt she has ever been asked if she is Darrell Stone, so there you go.  Any level of fame trumps everyday no matter where you live.

     One time I walked in late to attend a local conference, this woman came running over to me and grabbed my arm.  “Oh, we are so glad you are here!  We thought you forgot.  Let me escort you right in!”  I was very impressed with their warm welcome.  Then I realized she was escorting me quickly to the stage to speak to the hundreds attending. 

     “Oh, I’m sorry, I think you are confusing me with someone else.  I am not your speaker! I am just here to attend, really.”  My babbling was confusing her but I was merely also trying to buy time.  “No, no, no, I am not your speaker!”  By now she was leading me and we were climbing the three stairs up to the stage.  The audience was beginning to stop talking and any minute the lights were going to dim.  I was panicking, wondering if maybe I had lost my mind and forgotten that I had actually been booked as their speaker.  “No, I’d know you anywhere, Toni! You’re so funny!” she said as if I had been joking the entire time.  So, after I helped her understand the joke was on her, she quickly let me go back to find my own seat, unescorted. What we did have in common was our haircut and our style of dress.  Same curly hair, same style and the pièce de résistance is that we are both from the east coast.  I have learned that lots of people in the Midwest can‘t tell the difference between a New York and Boston accent, as it’s all just east coast fast to them. 

     My more famous doppelgängers seems to vary and are consistently one of three.  It’s become a game for me to see if I can figure out which artistic lens they use – music, movie or theatre – before they reveal the famous person’s name.  “I bet you have no idea who I am going to say you look like, do you? She’s a singer and an actress…” baited my plane neighbor in a sing-songy voice. “Actually, I bet I do.”  Her face dropped, so I kindly added, “But, go on – ohhhhh, this is fun!” She rallied with a smile.  I now put my book away as it seemed I may not be reading again until land while adding, “I’ll wait and tell you if you’re right.”

      “Ok! Michael…don’t you agree?”  She was now revving up her delivery by purposefully slowing down the intro and then speeding up during the big finale for a last name crescendo: “You.. could… be…. Barbra Streisand’s TWIN!!!!”   Michael nodded emphatically up and down while she patted his arm on the downbeat.  “I mean, YOU are much prettier, but, seriously – you two are identical.”  This qualifying beauty tag line has typically always followed when someone shares Barbra with me.  It’s a judgment that consistently makes me cringe.

      Barbra and I go way back.  I’ve learned to live with it.  Before Barbra it was Julie Kavner.  Julie is the actress who does Marge Simpson’s voice and used to be on the TV show, “Rhoda.”  When I was in my thirties, a co-worker cut out a magazine photo of Julie and left it for me on my office desk.  She actually hung it to my desk lamp to make sure I didn’t miss it.  Stapled to it was a note which said in caps, “SHE COULD BE YOUR TWIN!” with a smiley face. Everyone in the office the next day agreed.  When I hit my forties, it seemed Barbra pushed Julie aside.

     The deal is - we all have close set eyes.  Large noses and close set eyes.  In my case, it’s my French descent and in their case, it’s whatever.  When you get into this, the lens seems wrought with teetering on ethnic stereotypes and generalizations.  It’s dicey to analyze but when you are the subject you invariably find you want to learn more.  Living as Barbra has been a lesson in stereotypes.  Because these people see a resemblance they sometimes take it to the next level and assume I am also Jewish.  It tends to get mentioned after they learn my husband was born Jewish to which I simply reply, “Actually, I was born Irish-French Catholic.”  A few times this has been followed by “What?!  You must be kidding?! You’re not Jewish?  Why you look….your hair is so curly and …” then they trail off.  

     Are you ready? Please do sit down as these others may make your brain hurt. Drum roll, please: My famous doppelgänger trifecta is:  Barbra Streisand, Meryl Streep and Grace Slick.  

     No, I am not diagnosed with Schizophrenia. These three, distinct and dramatically different personalities and faces have somehow been attributed to reminding people of me. Again, I don’t make this stuff up and I really don’t understand it.  I just go with it, and apparently write about it.

     It seems like it’s a student who see me more frequently as reminding them of Meryl. Every year at least three students come up to me after class and ask, “Darrell? Do you happen to know the actress Meryl Streep?” for which I always pause, pondering if there are actually any living human beings in the modern world who don’t.  “You remind me of her so much!”  This one is completely baffling on new levels.  Let’s face it; I don’t have any features like Meryl.  It obviously throws out the eyes, hair and nose but seems to settle on some other factors I just can’t see.  Our names rhyme, so I guess at least that’s a start.  A friend of mine heard me share this once and then sat up.  “YES!!! Of Course!! It’s so obvious now. Oh, my God!”  Really?  I should be so lucky.  

     Then there is Amazing Grace.  I have been told that the younger Grace Slick from Jefferson Airplane resembled me when I was young, but not how she looks now. I will vainly admit that clarification is one huge relief.  Grace Slick is unrecognizable to me now.  She is a large lady who now slicks her white hair back severely in a ponytail, has distinct dark, penciled-in eyebrows and is 74 years old.  The minute I saw photos of her now, I gasped out loud.  She looks just like my mother.  Ouch.

     A doppelgänger boomerang experience is something like peering through the looking glass.  The illusion is powerful to the beholder and reflects something intangible, to us all.   No matter how much I analyze and dissect the pieces, I have learned it is best to let go.   It’s like falling down the rabbit hole into a place where everything is not what you see.  “Do you have any idea who you look like?”

 “..Go Ask Alice, I think she’ll know.”

 

(Photo source:  Pictify.com)

Polar Opposite

 

     There must have been a whole lot of drinking involved when Iceland and Greenland were originally named.  “Oh, ice.  Nice.” What’s up with all those Vikings who simply spoke a language frozen in the Land of Literal? Unfortunately, as it turns out, they were literally wrong.  Iceland is not all ice and Greenland isn’t green. Seriously. It’s Greenland that’s filled with ice.  Iceland is, well, filled with volcanos. It’s like landing on the moon with some seasonal green here and there, and a bit of ice thrown in.  It’s a country the size of Kentucky formed with 130 volcanoes.  Clearly when those Viking sots got sober they overlooked reality or they would have quickly renamed it. Maybe if they had just taken off those damn horned hats, they might have had the energy to be accurate as surely there’s much more literal and simple to go around. 

     Why, Iceland could have been named Lavaland, or Ashland, or maybe Craterville.  Even Grayrock or Treeless would be more like it.  Perhaps it’s more accurate to imagine that these drunken Vikings simply got distracted just trying to pronounce Reykjavik, and then it all quickly got lost in translation. Reykjavik is actually Reykjavíkurflugvöllur in Icelandic. Yeah. Twenty one letters but not one pronounceable or familiar syllable for those of us not trained or native. It’s embarrassing to admit but that word simply boils down in my brain as being “yada-yada-yada-yada-UMLAUT-yada.” Apparently the Vikings and I both arrogantly botch accuracy.

     Fanciful history aside, Iceland is one of the most awesome and beautiful places on earth. Perhaps 130 volcanoes, blue lagoons and all those tectonic plates have something to do with it. Or, that stunningly beautiful video they show you during their airline take-off. Why that sucker seals the deal within the first twenty minutes in the air.  Iceland Airline takes a sober, boring emergency landing video about seatbelts, oxygen masks and water slides - during a potentially horrifying crash - and makes it feel like an artistic experience or a yoga-like, meditative retreat.  It’s the most peaceful, hypnotically narrated nature-fest take-off I have ever encountered.  They might more accurately name it Eckhart Tolle Airline.

     I have flown in and out of the Reykjavik airport for layovers four times now and each has lured me in with magnetizing wonder, despite never having actually set foot on land.  This magical place is where the United States has sent astronauts to train for landing on the moon. So, in simple terms, it genuinely is almost out of this world.

     Recently, I was in the Reykjavik airport for an eight hour, overnight layover to England.  Despite arriving at almost midnight their time, the central waiting area in the terminal was at the height of busy; and busy for me with all those new things you experience when you are first in another’s world.  Theirs is very modern, and full of a lot of Nordic sweaters.  And hairy boots.  Cultural competency, daylight at night and assimilation aside, this moment was different in a new way. There seemed a deafening omission of something, and it all felt shockingly different. It actually took about an hour to even begin to realize what it was. 

     Quiet.  

     All these hundreds and hundreds of people were busy in engaging conversation, eating or drinking, talking, walking and yet it was like we were quietly in a large living room.  It was filled with clinking glasses, laughter, droning voices and children giggling in a terminal not designed linearly, with chairs attached in straight lines like in the states.  In Iceland, people are together mingling in a community circle design.  This moment seemed like the movie Love, Actually with a new geometric effect for that opening scene where they pan in on the crowd waiting for life stories to emerge. An Icelandic remake would also have very, very tall actors and actresses, with blonde, straight hair.  Oh, wait a minute.  That would be Hollywood.  Never mind.

     After taking in the quiet, I began to question why.  Oh.  OHHH.  There were no TVs anywhere in the airport.  Not one screen of news to blare reports of terrorism, weather, politics and gossip, all with ticker tape urgency.

     There was also no music playing over the speakers, no flight announcements, no neon signs and no fast food chains in this large, Iceland airport.  No sensory distractions and junk whatsoever.  The Iceland airport is filled with just people, and stores in which to shop, all located around the perimeter. Being. In the moment. And eating an inordinate amount of fish for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  It couldn’t be more Un-American.  

     I found this stark difference to be a welcome salve to my U.S. noise-battered and consumer-badgered soul. It seems we have become a country obsessed with providing an undercurrent of sound and sales 24/7.  In the American world there is music constantly playing or visual stimuli consistently flashing us a message everywhere we go:  In the doctor’s office, dentist chair, grocery store, liquor store, hair salon and car dealer; in our offices and on our computers, in yoga class, the locksmith, coffee shop, elevator and in every, single store and restroom in the mall.  Billboards as we drive and Music as we walk. News and advertising update us, while war, violence and terrorism depress.  We are a country now designed to sell, tell, serve and satiate the public to death.  Iceland by comparison seems alive with a promotion merely of living quietly together in peace.

     Weeks later, I landed back in the states at Logan airport in Boston.  One of the first things my senses noticed about our country was the undercurrent and barrage of sound and TV’s back in my life.  It seemed an assault on every level.  The most glaring was in the ladies room.  Directly over the stall was actually a speaker in the ceiling, and the music was so loud I wanted to cover my ears.  I could barely hear the toilets flush.  It seemed ironic when I realized the song playing as I peed was Bruce Springsteen screaming at me, “Born in the U.S.A.! Born in the U.S.A…”

     When did we decide to kill Quiet? I miss it.  In our country, quiet seems a language long ago and far way, frozen and literally not heard anymore.  You simply can’t get more accurate than that.

 

 

(Photo credit: Hvalsnes, Iceland - Pinterest)

Whittling Away History

"What's that box?" I asked my father at about seven years old.  We had recently moved into a small home in Greater Boston, overlooking the city and I was exploring the extra room next to my bedroom upstairs.  It was a tiny room the size of a closet.  Somehow a twin bed, night table and a small dresser were tightly placed in there, but with no room to spare.  In reality this meant that when you stepped into the room, you were miraculously half way across it at the same time.  For years we called it “the spare room." I always thought that meant the ‘extra’ room.  In retrospect, it could have been a joke as there was surely no room to spare.  It was just a tiny room with nothing memorable in it, except a box. 

This mysterious box was simple and small. It was made of dark wood with a carved heart, swirling leaf-like designs on the lid, and scallop patterns on the foundation edgings.  The background had little dots of indents where the artist had carefully tapped the tip of a knife to create pattern and depth.  In a plain and utilitarian room, this piece seemed completely out of place or an attempt toward waking things up.

The box was neatly placed, and perfectly centered on the top of the dresser.  Perfectly centered, as my father had a tendency toward exact.  This one day he was gingerly putting something back into it and closing the lid carefully, when I had asked him my question.  "Oh, it’s just something I've had since I was young." He smiled, patted my head and walked out with me.  It was a calm, clear answer and kept me quiet for several more years.

"Where did you get this box?" I asked my father again sometime during my early adolescent double digits.  I was busy now.  Rarely home, and rarely ever in this room.  It seemed spare for something or someone that never came.  The carved wooden box had held court and stayed in its post, perfectly placed on the dresser for years.  Nothing and no one had moved it.  On this night, I went in the room to look for the cat, who often could be found curled up and sleeping on the bed.  Guarded by the box, peacefully still in solitude and silence.  "Oh, it's just something I got in Italy during the war."  My hand brushed over the meticulous carvings and took in the detail all around, like Braille.  I instinctively began to run my fingers over the design of intricacy, like I was painting.  "It's beautiful!" I said softly, but my Dad had already walked away.

It never occurred to me to open it. 

Years later, I was in college living in the city, a mere thirty minutes away.  I came home for a semester break and saw things as if for the first time.  Everything seemed different now.  What was old seemed new, what was new seemed wrong and what was silent seemed loud.  I would slowly wander the house late at night after my parents went to bed, exploring rooms and things as if I had never been there before, reveling in my connection and letting the rooms of our home hold me once again.

The spare room was exactly the same.  Its purposelessness now struck me as comical and the conundrum of the box called me all over again. The carved, wooden box with a heart was still in its place of duty on the dresser, artistically watching time stand still.  I went over and gently pulled up the lid.  Inside the box were old, foreign coins from Italy, France and England.

The next evening, I took the box out of the room for the first time ever and into the light.  It was astonishingly beautiful and unique.  While the ceiling light of the upstairs hallway helped bring details into focus our cat wove in and out of my feet, doing methodical crazy eights.  He meowed for attention then followed me in a quick pitter- patter down the stairs, almost tripping me in the process of going to find my father.

My father was resting in a recliner in the family room with his eyes closed, listening to music.  “Dad. Dad? Are you awake?”  His eyes opened quickly but then he slowly rubbed them sideways, like windshield wipers in a gentle rain.  He cleared his throat, saw me and then rallied with a sweet smile, as he swooshed his hair back into place with his hands. “No, honey, no, no, no... I wasn’t sleeping!”  His favorite Eddy Arnold record was playing in the background. If I could pretend now that I knew which Arnold song echoed in that moment, I would surely think it was Make the World Go Away.  

I sat down in the chair beside my dad and gently placed the wooden box on my lap.  He knew.  I knew. The time was right.  “Where did you get this box, Dad? It’s so beautiful. And the coins…”  My father began to slowly pull the chair up and center himself, as if to find balance.  His voice was sleepy and gravelly, not quite him yet.  “World War II. In Italy.” The cat jumped up onto the recliner arm and was now kneading my dad’s lap signaling he wanted to settle in for a stay.  I did too.

I opened the box.  “A prisoner of war carved it for me.” 

“A prisoner of war? What do you mean?  Why would he do that? I don’t understand.”  The cat began to purr loudly again and his tail was slapping my father’s lap with rhythmic contentment.  My father began petting him to sleep.  We both sat there, holding tales.

“I was stationed in France, Italy and North Africa.  You know, there is nothing more beautiful in the whole world than North Africa. Nothing.”  This was the first time my dad had ever spoken to me about WWII and the first I had even heard him say North Africa.

“POW’s got bored…so we let them do all kinds of things to pass the time, even whittling wood.  When I was stationed in Italy, I guarded and befriended one.”

One.  It seemed like giving this POW a name was to cross some sort of boundary all over again for my father. 

“I talked to him every day.  There were times he told me about his family and then I would talk to him about mine.  And New Hampshire…”  My father paused a very long time in silence and this made me feel awkward, so I handed him the box. He began brushing his fingers over the heart and leaf design.  “I would sneak him chocolate bars, and sometimes even cigarettes, when I could!” 

The cat was now sound asleep.  My dad went on about all things politics and war to help provide context, weaving in Hitler, Mussolini, and the hanging in the town square.  But all I remember is when he returned to telling me about the One.  “Right before I left Italy, he gave me this box as a gift.  He wanted to thank me for being so kind to him.” 

My father handed me back the box, then slowly closed his eyes putting his head back down on the back of the recliner.  He began to hum quietly to Eddy Arnold, who seemed to be soothing us both back from war.  “Goodnight, Dad.”  He smiled peacefully with his eyes closed.  I kissed the cat goodnight.

Somewhere between then and now the metaphor of it all hit me. This box had been isolated in a tiny room for years and then, paradoxically, was placed on the dresser like a guard.  

War atrocities, evil and human horror aside, my father’s only story to me about the war was how he befriended the enemy, who carved and gave him a box with a beautiful heart on it.  How two men found common ground and humanity as their language. 

How we remember and keep some things forever.

To this day the box now reminds me of all things peaceful and possible.

Yesterday I was in my car stopped at a particularly long red light and my mind began to wander while I waited. Really wander. You know, in that place where you sort of forgot you are in a car driving and then come to, just as it turns green. This place might actually be a creative, short-term vacation technique but I do suspect most would just call it bad driving.  

At any rate, just as a Yusuf Islam-Cat Stevens CD was lulling me away with musical poetry...

Everybody's thinking about the rain
Everybody's thinking about the rain
Wonder if the sun is gonna come again, things are looking bad
Everybody in the world, in the world's looking so sad
 
...I looked over and saw a young man sitting on the ground.  He was holding a cardboard sign asking those of us in cars for money.  The sign was for us to see, but it seemed he had stopped looking a long time ago.  He was so pensive in this long stare, out into someplace very far away.  Further away it seemed than any one place my benign wanderings had just taken me. He was slowly taking puffs on the stub of a cigarette while methodically blowing the smoke back out with exact timing in short, strong bursts.  Over and over and over.  He was right there but clearly very far away. 

In this world of darkness evil rules by night
But somewhere in the shadows someone seeking light
No one loves his neighbor here, nobody has the time
No one cares for anyone else in a world where the sun don't shine

In my car I have cash for parking meters but also for moments like this, so I took out some money and lowered my window.  "Excuse me, here you go," I said loudly as the distance between us may have been a few feet but somehow now seemed galactic.  He gently took the bills and mumbled something that merely sounded gentle to me.  We both attempted to smile but the entire moment was wrought with being strangers. 

As he walked away the light turned green and I glanced over one more time.  I slowly lifted my foot off the brake and onto the gas.  The person behind me honked.  They were annoyed and was fascinated by that privileged reaction.

It was then I read his sign more clearly, "Please help me.  I need money. The airplanes are coming to get me." 

Oh.  Oh, well.  Oh, my.  Oh.  So many thoughts, reasons and possible translations went through my head.  None of them mattered. 

Only the moment where all things wander, people pause and poets understand.

Shamsia
Shamsia

 
(Yusuf Islam - World O' Darkness)

The Halls are Alive with the Sound of Music

 

One day a few years ago in Chicago, I was rounding the corner into a hotel hallway hullabaloo.  I was there as a volunteer for an annual east coast conservatory of music Midwest musical theatre audition.  While this historic hotel was located downtown near the Magnificent Mile there was very little about me that day that felt magnificent.  A four hour car ride had taken six and left me exhausted, disheveled, hungry, wet, uncomfortable, wired and tremendously late.  To top it off, the hotel was experiencing a major remodeling about which I didn’t know which made my arrival even later, and me a whole lot more disoriented. 

As one entered the hotel any of us who weren’t guests were led away by greeters away from the gorgeous lobby full of gilded mirrors, King Louis furniture and glass chandeliers to the dreary back hallway.  Single light bulbs hung on wires, and everything was a seriously odd olfactory combination of construction sawdust, Pinesol and lunchtime cooking.  Yellow barrier tape as well as an occasional handwritten paper sign taped on a wall stud kept us dutifully away from the kitchen and crassly guided down to the service elevator, which was the size of a room and actually had a wooden planked floor.  This maze of maintenance and maids was a city of multiplicity.  It was sort of reminiscent to downstairs in Downton Abbey, minus the accents and Mr. Carson. 

We were an eclectic mix heading upward in this elevator room to the skies above Chicago: four construction workers, several electricians, a few hotel maids, a waiter, two chefs, some auditioning students with their parents, and the pièce de résistance - a woman in a full fur coat carrying a miniature Poodle wearing a pink bow and sweater.  And then there was me.  By the time I finally got off the elevator on the thirtieth floor it seemed that time, place, and manner were all mixed up.  I rounded the corner and it was then I saw and remembered.  

I had forgotten about the twirling.  There seems a young actor-singer-dancer phenomenon of twirling in a hallway before a musical theatre audition, which is sometimes interspersed with a lot of erratic and sporadic leaping.  This whirling dervish certainly bears no resemblance to a typical hotel hallway, which tends toward a culture of decorum and quiet, especially when strangers are passing by.  In audition hallways there’s also the potential for random outbursts of singing, as well.  In those moments one can pretty much guarantee a crescendo whenever a stranger passes by. 

While there’s understandably a lot of nervous energy before an audition it seems safe to say that the younger the musical auditioning crowd, the more spectacular this unique hallway visual seems to be.  Sometimes it’s a regular three ring circus, making it hard to focus.  Or perhaps a Fellini film, as it can be painfully surreal to watch with a lot of contrasting symbols.  Fear and confidence perform together in this one moment so perfectly vulnerable with awkwardness and grace. It’s often a sea of people of all shapes and sizes, with just a little clowning around thrown in.  Fellini would indeed be proud. 

Audition hallways seem sacred spaces for nervous young performers.  We can assume that there is a whole lot of praying going on in them, or for some perhaps there’s meditation, even if just in the form of analyzing the competition.  Yes, there are practice rooms set aside for such things at auditions, but hallways seem to get you ready in ways the private practice room cannot.  This linear land of competition is closely located right outside the door of what you’ve been dreaming about for weeks.  It is the direct ramp connected to the actual threshold which might lead you to your shining moment of discovery.  Or the plank you walk before your death of embarrassment and shame.  A hallway outside an audition room is where you line up consecutively by the exact time you were given, and where each minute moves you closer and forward in time like the hand of a clock.  It holds the potential to stroke the ego, and sometimes awaken the soul but usually it merely just keeps you waiting.  Ultimately, the audition hallway seems a portal which holds an ambiance where time seems to stand still.

On this winter day in Chicago, high above the city in a hotel hallway full of singing, twirling and leaping, I eventually found the registration table for the conservatory.  It brought back myriad memories as my own college theatre audition had been in a different city, for a different school, in a completely different decade but also in a hotel.  I suddenly could see myself years earlier and decades younger back when my name was Darrell Gamache, nervously handing my own resume and headshot to a volunteer, ready to leap into the unknown.  This hallway seems a precious moment full of innocence, hope and naiveté.  Perhaps you can change the date and modernize the leotard, but these interpersonal hallway dynamics are apparently timeless.   

As I wove my way forward down this Chicago hotel hallway a smiling, short, round woman leapt up from her chair like a jack in the box, rushed over to me and began chatting quickly.  At the same time she was somehow shaking my hand continuously, packing up her large bag to leave and finishing her last sips of a Diet Coke.  It was unclear how she did all this at once but it was flawless choreography.  A part of me was in complete awe as my own similar multitasking efforts just end in littering, breaking or spilling.  This happy volunteer was wearing lots of plastic, neon jewelry to complement her very bright and bulky ski sweater and all of this was somehow now mesmerizing to me in my sleep-like state of exhaustion.  My own fashion choice of being in all-black with a hat, coat, skirt, turtle neck, tights and tall boots had now created some random moment of confluence for Fellini and the circus.

Happy the Volunteer now tumbled a litany of run-on information my way, “OH, my goodness! You are finally here!  My name is Barbara, so nice to meet you pluuleeez, tell me that you are the next volunteer you’re here to replace me, right? I bet you’re late because of all this horrible weather hey, this has been so much fun, but a lot of work I hope you didn’t get stuck in that snowstorm I hear it’s horrible out there, my husband just called me to tell me to drive slowly, and that it’s a nightmare on the Dan Ryan wait until you hear these kids sing, it’s gonna make your head spin this sure has been fun, you’re just gonna love it THEY ARE ALL SO TALENTED! ”  My New Neon friend was her own whirling dervish.  I think I nodded but her bobbing earrings and plastic bangle bracelets now had my full attention instead.  “Ok, so, I’ve gotta go, but this is all so easy, these kids are all lined up here and ready for you to check them in.  Now, the staff are behind this door, so we have to be very quiet,” it was only now that she began to whisper and, with one last gasp, “Oh, I almost forgot here are the files and headshots from the morning, just take them when they come in and check them off the list so that you can get it all to the staff!” and with that I realized I now needed to actually pay attention. 

Screwing up the names, headshots and resumes would really suck, I thought.  Leave it to me to make a mistake, causing some young student to never get their big break into a prestigious performance school. I decided I might need some clarification quickly.  “Excuse me,” I loudly whispered, “I want to be sure I get the basics before you actually leave.”  Barbara was now fully armored for the outdoors and well on her way with her fluorescent hat, scarf and tall, lime rubber boots.  I whispered again but now dramatically used my best throaty voice while practicing my diaphragmatic delivery. 

“What exactly do I do?” I yelled down the hall in quiet desperation.  Three students in line whipped their heads around like they were going to throttle me for interrupting their meditative panic. 

“There’s an instruction sheet on the table.  For now, just know that the next young woman auditioning is in the bathroom.  She’ll be back any minute so just be sure she gets back into that line soon as she is next.”

“What’s her name?” 

“I dunno.  Just check the schedule!” And with that the neon lights of Broadway went out.

I took a deep breath and sat back to take it all in before paying any attention to the piles of paper and details in front of me.  It seemed wisest to absorb the surroundings first, and learn later.  It seemed an art to just get ones hallway bearings.  Within seconds it was clear that the noise, movement and excitement all around were palpable.  It was sweetly familiar and just like I had remembered – so very long ago when I was young and in a hallway like this and my name was Darrell Gamache.

A huddle had now gathered to listen to a student auditioning behind the door beside us.  This young man singing had a gorgeous voice and he stopped every one of us with his gift.  His tone and delivery seductively beckoned us to listen fully from the hallway as he tenderly sang Bring Him Home from Les Miserables.  All the twirling and leaping respectfully came to a halt and all the whisperers knew to become silent.  The hallway was in its sacred space and moment.  This young man was channeling “Valjean” and passionately pleading those tender and illustrious high notes so desperately to a God above, asking to save Marius from death.  We were a hallway transported, transfixed and delivered. 

Just then I was interrupted.  It was a bit startling to leave France and the Revolution but a young woman was now standing in front of me asking me something while showing me her resume and headshot. 

It was uncanny but my first reaction was that she looked like me when I was her age!  Surely my blizzard driving experience had now completely taken its toll.  Don’t be ridiculous, I thought.  Just because she had the same similar long, really thick, curly hair… and her eyes were uniquely close set like those of us who are of French descent …and her body-type exactly the same... Clearly I was over-tired, and thinking way too much.  Darrell, get a grip.

My millisecond pause wasn’t helping her nerves so she urgently handed me her resume and whispered, “My audition is next.”  

“Oh, you must be the young woman who went to the bathroom!”  She rolled her eyes and gave me a half smile.  It seemed an attempt at being casually wry isn’t welcome when one is about to leap off a precipice. 

“I need to check you off the list and match your resume and headshot – what’s your name?”

“Rebecca.”

“Hi Rebecca.  Rebecca what?”

“Gamache.” 

Now I knew I must be asleep.  I shook my head to clear and reset. 

“I’m sorry, whadju say?  I don’t think I heard you clearly…what’s your last name?”

“Gamache.” 

All I could think was something I couldn’t say out loud:  WTF?!
“I’m sorry.  This is embarrassing, but you’ll have to say that one more time.  Did you say Gamache?”

“Yeah.”

“Gamache?  G-A-M-A-C-H-E?!”  Rebecca looked at me like I was having a stroke.                                      

My hearing and sanity seemed to be colliding.  “Am I hearing you correctly?  Your name is actually Rebecca Gamache?  Seriously?!!” 

I began babbling louder and rambling deliriously.  Now everyone in line had whipped around to stare.  Nothing made much sense right now and apparently neither did I.  At this point Rebecca Gamache had every right to walk away and get back in line, as surely this was not what she needed two minutes before her big audition.   

“You know….that’s my last name, too!  Well, actually that was my maiden name and the one I had when I auditioned for college, just like you, and I was JUST thinking about that moment and remembering all of it.  You know, Gamache is a really unique name and …”   She was looking at me like I had two heads, three eyebrows or was speaking in tongues.  It was then I realized something I’d never said out loud: “I’ve never met anyone with our last name….ever. It’s French Canadian and there aren’t many of us … wow, what are the odds that the first person auditioning…”  And round and round my mind and babble went, with no amount of logic or self-control to stop me.

Rebecca seemed unamused and impatient, so I stopped and looked down at her resume instead. That’s when I found what at this point I already knew:  Rebecca Gamache and Darrell Gamache had been similarly cast in many to most of the same roles in theatre.  Because this additional parallel was uncanny, unbelievable and perfectly surreal, I just kept it to myself.   

“Do you have family in New Hampshire or Vermont like I do?” 

“No, not at all.  I’m from Oregon.”   

Ms. Gamache began to gather her things, but something seemed to stop her.  She gracefully turned to me and said softly, “But you’re right, you know.  I’ve never met anyone with the last name Gamache, either.”  She smiled graciously.  Her voice was tender, calm and clear.  “How funny that you also auditioned when you were my age and that we have the same last name.”  She turned to leave, but then actually came back one more time.  She paused, then said, “I really do get it.  Thank you.  I appreciate you going out of your way to tell me all this.”

Just then the door opened and they called her name, “Rebecca Gamache?  Come on it, it’s your turn, Hon.”

I smiled.  My heart was someplace long ago and far away while at the same time amazingly present.  “It was wonderful to meet you, Rebecca Gamache. Break a leg!”  She walked away but I now leapt up and gently touched her arm. She twirled around slowly and we met eyes one more time.  Time stood still.  “Remember, no matter what happens today – you’re gonna be fine.  Just fine.”   She smiled. 

Then I let her go.

Back at the table the anonymous list of names blended back into the meditative murmur and motion all around.  Twirling, leaping, singing.  Giving, receiving, accepting. 

Yes.  The audition hallway is a sacred space, indeed.