Failure, or How I Joined the Legendary Wailers, Part 3

Photo Credit: Christopher Laberinto

All Good Things Come to A Beginning

When I pulled into the driveway of Siobhan’s little seaside hippie farm there on Shore Road in Truro, I noticed more cars than usual for a Sunday. Geno’s Camry–a lugubrious shade of blue–was parked outside. But then so was Van Moves, the big red cargo van that the David’s Foote guys rolled around in. David’s Foote was a post-funk indie fusion band from Deleware who were hanging out in Orleans that summer, gigging up and down the Cape. They were also all Quakers who occasionally attended Friends meetings over in Brewster. Great guys, good friends, but their drummer was Siobhan’s other boyfriend, Dusty. Dusty and Geno didn’t get on. Then again, when they butted heads over her, it didn’t last long. Sooner or later they just ended up agreeing that but Siobhan was always a good time that neither one could really blame the other for wanting to be with her. What struck me as odd was that Dusty had driven separately, because his filthy gold Honda CRX hatchback parked there next to Van Moves. As I headed into the barn I called home, I glanced over at Van Moves and admired the beautiful lighthouse scene on the Massachusetts license places.

As soon as I got in the door, I checked my messages. There was only one. It was from Paul, a goth-nerd-turned-Cape-Eurotrash-for-the-summer fella of my acquaintance. In fact, the last time I’d seen Paul, he’d asked me out on a date. The last time I’d heard from Paul was never, because the fucker stood me up. I listened with disbelief as Paul explained that he had gotten himself srtanded in Hyannis because he’d misread the bus schedule and could I please pick him up? My do-gooder instincts had deployed once already today, and they just weren’t ready for a second go. Cackling like a Sanderson sister, I pressed “delete” and headed to the kitchen. Turns out, this tiny act of self-respect was another vitally important decision along the path to my future. My path at that minute led straight to my nachos and I was salivating at the thought of them. 

The sound of music drifted by me. Guitar and bongo drums. Two sets of bongos and…nope. One set of bongos and one talking drum. Siobhan was having an afterparty. Dusty was obvs on the talking drum, but who were the other two? Dan on bass and Bob on bongos? Then the scent of cannabis breezed through my nostrils, and I immediately remembered the nachos that were awaiting me. With a spring in my step, I hopped up the steps to the kitchen and opened the door. It was a party alright. Geno and Dusty were there, sitting in chairs next to one another. Geno was playing bongos. The rest of the guys from David’s Foote weren’t there, but other people I’d never seen before were. 

Golden goddes Siobhan sat smiling on the floor between them. In front of her, Liza was stretched out on a My Little Pony blanket on the floor, coloring. A boy of about eight lounged on the floor opposite Liza, also coloring. Behind him sat his exceedingly pregnant mother, also on the floor. She had long curly hair and freckles. Her shirt was open and she was nursing a beautiful 11-month-old girl. On the chair behind her sat…I shook my head to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. Aston “Family Man” Barrett–OG bassist for Bob Marley’s Wailers band–was sitting at my kitchen table, playing guitar with a spliff in his mouth. This, as it turns out, is where Fams had run off to in the band’s cargo van: My kitchen.

“WENDIIIII!” Siobhan shrieked as she hopped up off the floor and dashed in my direction.

“SIOBHAAAAAAAN! HEEEEY!” I said, as I hugged her. As she pulled away, I grabbed her back and whispered, “What’s happening here? Why is Aston Ba–?” 

At my question, Siobahn broke out into peals of summery laughter. For reasons unknown, we all just kind of joined in and laughed with her. I still had no idea what was going on.  

“Oh-ho My God, Wendi! You will never believe this!” Siohban said, and then she explained what happened.

“This is Fams–Family Man Barrett–and his partner Jen. She also manages the band. These are their kids, Ian, and Maya.”

Jen lifted her head graciously and smiling, said, “Very pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” I said, as I made my way over to my remaining nachos. "My name is Wendi! Can I just get by you to the–” I said as I descended upon the snack table. 

Siobhan flitted back to her spot and flounced back to the floor. “Well, Ian and Liza met on the beach and started playing together.”

Jen chimed in, adding, “They were the only two kids their age at the show. Ian’s on the road with us, and he never gets to see kids his own age.” I scooped up all remaining nachos and then took as much of Siobhan’s watermelon, Mango, and kiwi as I wanted. 

“Sooooo–” Siobhan said, smiling, “I invited them over here to hang out and play for a few hours.

Nodding nodded conspiratorially to Siobhan, Jen said, “And WE said YES!” 

“And that’s how a world-famoud reggae musician and his family came to be in my kitchen!” I added, unable to resist. Plate balanced carefully in hand, I located a section of the floor that was as yet unoccupied and settled down to eat. 

“Though I’m glad to meet you,  we’re not entirely strangers,” I said between bites of my nachos. “I just got back from giving your band a ride to the Viking Inn.”

“Wha?” Boomed a bass voice. For the first time, Fams acknowledged my presence. He sounded concerned. “Wh ‘bout de band?”

I dreaded this next bit of conversation, “Well, sir, you took the cargo van and so there was nobody to take them to the hotel. I happened along in my truck.”

“OH!” The most innocent look of surprise and horror crossed his face right then. I hated to be the reason for it, even if he really did kind of deserve it. 

“Fams! There’s no worries!” I assured him, “They all fit in my truck. They’re back at the hotel.”

“You drop dem off?” Fams cocks his head up to the right and looks down at me, credulously.

“Yeah, man, I dropped them off.” 

Fams visibly relaxes. “Irie,” he says, grinning. He pulls a drag off his spliff and goes back to playing guitar. He remained thus entranced fro the rest of their visit. Geno and Dusty played alongside him, in perfect synchopation. It was really lovely.

As it turns out, Jen, like myself, had an interest in multicultural literature and drama. I’d studied both in undergrad. She told me how it led her to love reggae, and that led her to join the Wailers as their merch girl. That led to a romantic relationship with Fams, three beautiful children, and new business ventures. We discussed Jean Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea, a novel we both loved, and Edgar White’s play,  Lament for Rastafari, which we also both loved. We had common interest reggae and postcolonial literature, so I took a risk: I asked her if she’d ever heard of the Greenwood Race Massacre. She said she had not. I only knew a little about it at the time, but I’d been reading everything I could find about it since I accidentally discovered that hidden history in high school. Jen listened intently as I told her what I knew of the matter. I'd never had a conversation about this topic with anyone else in my life up until that point. She was interested and appreciative.

Eventually, the conversation turned toward the quotidian. I wanted to know about life on the road and what The Wailers were up to these days. Jen wanted to know more about ME. She was particularly keen to hear about my stage management and technical production skills. Nobody else ever had been, so that part kind of sticks out as very memorable. I told her about different employment adventures I’d had on the Cape, and Jen seemed...impressed somehow? When I told Jen where I was from, she immediately said, “you just up and came out here with a truck and a few boxes. Just like that?” I told her I most certainly had. Jen was surprised by that. But not so surprised as I was was after what she said to me next:

“We’re taking a few weeks off for the holidays in October, but we’ll be back on the road again to do the New Years’ shows. We need a new road manager. Would you be interested in the job? I know it’s not theater…”

My heart pounded in my ears as I listened to her. It was not theater. But after the day I'd had, I was definitely happy to entertain other ways to use my theater skills. Especially if the job really paid. I chose my next words very carefully: “What does a Road Manager do and how much does it pay?”

“Well, “Jen began, “First, you do advance work to confirm every detail of each performance prior to the show. When you get to the city of the gig, you get the band checked into the hotel. Then you have to get the band back and forth from the hotel to the venue for soundcheck and the show. Finally, you settle the contract before the band goes on. That’s when you go over the numbers and the contract details and pick up our money. Wash rinse repeat. Two grand per week. Do you have a passport?”

I had just applied for a passport because I was headed to Munich for Oktoberfest in late September. “Yes, I do,” I confidently replied. To be honest, it sounded like a job made up of things I was already good at, and if this tour stop and our recent conversation was any indication, I’d get to see the resort towns of at least 12 countries if I took this job.  And I was I was going to take it. I was going to hop in and drive this job like I stole it for as long as I possibly could. I would make up what I didn't know and bullshit the rest.

A leap of faith was needed here, so I took it. “I’d love to take the job,” I said, “When does it start?

“We go back on the road December 26th. You’ll probably have to leave Christmas Day.”

As far as I was concerned, Christmas was already happening right there in that kitchen. “That shouldn’t be a problem. When can I expect to hear back from you?” 

“We’ll reach out in November to get things in motion,” confirmed Jen.  

Ay, there was the rub. I wouldn’t know it this magical gig was the real thing or not until almost Thanksgiving. But what would it hurt to give Jen my contact information for the Cape–and for Oklahoma, just in case. We exchanged contact information, and Jen and Fams left not long thereafter. They had to drive to Portland, Maine early the next morning. As they pulled away, I wondered if I’d ever hear from them again.

And then I completely forgot about the entire thing. I went on to do a few more shows that summer on the Cape. I got nominated for some sort of P-Town based “best supporting actress in a comedic role” award I’d never heard of for my turn as Grandma in Provincetown Theater Company’s production of Paula Vogel’s How I Learned to Drive. I lost out to Ryan Landry for his portrayal of Colonel Sandra in Pussy on the House, his parody of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Landry deserved that award, but it was an honor to be nominated for it, whatever it was.

Summer shenanigans notwithstanding, I hadn’t had ANY luck getting connections in Boston. By the end of the summer, I knew I would be heading back to Oklahoma to regroup and plan my next steps. I hated the idea of it, but I just kind of hoped something would come along. I made the most of my proximity to a proper international airport and thoroughly enjoyed my Oktoberfest trip. Then, I headed home, where I enjoyed time with my family after nearly two years apart. 

On November 30th, 2000, Jen called me. I had no fucking clue who it even was. She had to remind me of that day in Siobhan’s kitchen before I realized who I was talking to. Jen said that she was calling to tell me that my flight to North Carolina would be leaving at 5am on Christmas day, and I’d be traveling on to Hilton Head from RDU immediately after landing. My portfolio and contract would be FedExed to me the next week so I could start advancing the tour and get on the payroll.

I’d forgotten all about our meeting, but Jen had kept track of my contact information and used it to track me down and give me the road manager job. The fact that it all took place before cell phones were a thing makes this also sort of a miracle. Road Managing the 2001 Wailers Band World Tour was by far the most amazing, dangerous, challenging, fun, and fabulous job I’ve ever had. The absolute best possible thing I could ever have done for myself.

It’s good to think back on that time of my life as I embark on a similarly harrowing and bold new adventure: doing whatever the hell I want. It took my burnout for me to realize that I’m done with the rat race, because it nearly destroyed my cognitive and psychological health. I’m done with Oklahoma, because after six years of struggling , there is still opportunity for me in terms of career, creativity, and community. My chosen family is far-flung and I want to spend time near them after years apart. I’m done trying to do what was expected of me, because trying to meet others’ expectations while burning myself out is a folly I can ill afford for my mental and cognitive health. If I want time and energy left over to write, make art, be with my people, and live my life, it’s time to sell the house and nearly everything in it and do what I’ve wanted to do for years: pick up that sweet little Winnebago of my dreams and hit the road as digital nomad. At least, that’s the plan, such as it is.

Change means opportunity, if it means anything at all. I know for a certainty that the right mix of things will come up sooner or later, because that's what's what has always happened. It is also usually comes completely out of left field and as a total surprise, so there's that. In the meantime, I am plenty busy working out the details, shedding decades of dead weight, and prioritizing things that matter to me: my writing and my relationships. That said, plans can be paused. I saw that the Wailers Band will be in Tulsa in late  June, which is about the time I’l be heading out. Maybe I’ll see what they’re up to before I make any firm decisions.

 

Part 1     Part 2

Failure, or, How I Joined the Legendary Wailers, Part 1

 Photo Credit: Pedro Lastra

A Moon for the Misbegotten

23 years ago this month, I left home for the first time and moved halfway across the American continent with only the barest outline of a plan. Spectacular things happened. Very little went according to plan. Then again, if my plans had worked out, I’d have missed most of the amazing stuff. If anyone had told me that when I lit out to take that theater internship on Cape Cod that it would lead to me becoming the road manager for one of the most famous bands in all of reggae music, I’d have thought they were crazy. Yet, that’s exactly what happened. As I prepare to sell the house I inherited from my grandparents and leave home for the last time, those memories are very present with me. Perhaps the biggest thing I learned from that entire experience was flexibility: no matter how great your plans may be, they better be flexible enough that you can pause them when something unexpected and incredible drops in your lap. You’ll regret not taking some opportunities no matter how wild they may seem at first.

It had been a little over a year since I’d moved to Cape Cod. My only thought after surviving Cape Cod in winter was that what people said was true: Cape Cod gets real bleak in the winter. It’s hard, cold, isolated, and more than a little crazy-making. I’d gigged like crazy all over the Cape to make it through the winter–art model, construction worker, restaurant hostess, grocery store product demonstrator, archivist, etc.--I had no intention of spending another one there. I knew that I needed to come out of the summer with more than a gig if I wanted to avoid the only thing worse than Truro in January: Oklahoma, all year. My plan at the time was to get to Boston.  While I felt *certain* that I’d land the gig that I needed to get there, I was beginning to worry about where to look for it. I’d not yet had much luck migrating to Boston to do theater tech stuff, and with summer theater season in Cape Cod gearing up, I’d be swamped with work and not make it over to Boston till at least September. I decided that 4 months would probably be plenty of time to figure out what came next, and that my odds of being off the Cape and in Boston by New Year’s were strong. Something would happen, but I didn’t know what or how. 

At the time, I was starring as Josie Hogan in Cape Rep’s production of Eugene O’Neill’s A Moon for the Misbegotten. From the first moment I’d read that play in college, Josie Hogan was my dream role. It felt like fate when I’d happened to run into Cape Rep’s resident director, Ann, at a party the previous October. She told me that she was hoping to put on Moon for Cape Rep’s upcoming summer season, but the only thing holding her back was that she didn’t have a  Josie. Well of course I hopped on that hint and rode it like a crosstown bus. We organized a reading, I helped fundraise for the project, and I convinced Ann to give me a shot. I was VERY invested in doing this role and doing it well. It seemed like my plans were working out. 

Until we actually went into production. All things being equal, I was prepared for the role and had been coming along nicely in building the character. Tyrone was played by David, an honest-to-god real professional actor who traveled between Boston and New York for work. Phil Hogan was played by the decidedly not professional actor, Tom. Tom had been a company member of Cape Rep for at least twenty years. He was a retired contractor and fan favorite who could be relied upon to turn in brilliant comic performances. Dennis, a science writer who liked theater, played T. Stedman Harder. In the beginning, we were a pretty tight unit. 

The problems really started when we put the scripts down. Nobody had bothered to let me in on the “open secret” that Tom could never remember his lines. It turned out that the reason Tom was a fan favorite and brilliant comic actor is that he basically rewrote the play as he went along and improvised most of his dialogue. He trusted that his co-stars were quick-thinking enough to keep up with his improvisation, keep the beats and the story on track, and make sure the cue lines got spoken so that folks made their entrances and exits on time. Cape Rep had learned years ago NEVER to cue ANY lights, sound, or stage business on any of Tom’s character’s lines. 

David was solid and really excellent as Tyrone, and with his professional experience, he was able to handle this situation better than I. I could make a nasty joke about method acting and alcohol here, but alcoholism isn’t a joke, and people drink because they need help and aren’t sure what else might work. Working with Tom would drive anyone to drink, which is exactly what David, Dennis, and I snuck off to go do after each performance. David drank before the show and backstage he was kind of a mess, but he could maintain well enough to turn in a good performance once he got on stage. Dennis was perfection as Harder and by far the easiest of us to work with. I’d had the misfortune of hearing Dennis read Phil during the reading we’d done in the winter. I say that because he’d have been a great Phil Hogan and far better to work with. Tom got added after the show was slated. 

I had high hopes and higher expectations for myself. My performance started out decent, but the quality declined over the course of the show’s production. The first week, my performance was above average but not really there yet. I was confident that I would get there.  But the continued stress of Tom forgetting more and more of his lines and improvising more and more of the story every single performance–leaving me alone to make sure Harder and Tyrone made their entrances–began to add up. David was sympathetic but wrapped up in his own stuff. Dennis was great, but he just didn’t have enough stage time to help me out there. I was on my own. And our director was constantly riding me about my shortcomings. She never told Tom to start remembering his lines.

Josie Hogan is a beast of a role- she is onstage 95% of the time. Josie is also written to be 28 years old, but almost every production of Moon casts an actress in her late 30s or 40s to play Josie. Colleen Dewhurst and Cherry Jones both played Josie Hogan on Broadway. They both spoke of how incredibly challenging this role is during press interviews for their respective productions. This means that even in optimal circumstances, this is a challenging role for a seasoned actress. I was inexperienced and 23 at the time, and my circumstances were less than ideal. By the last week, any credible review of my performance would probably have included the words, “what fresh hell is this?” 

I spent many years afterward feeling ashamed and humiliated at having worked so hard to get this role and then failing to give the performance I was so certain I could have. Now when I look back on that experience, knowing that I am autistic, have anxiety, and deal with sensory processing issues, I’m PROUD AS HELL OF MYSELF. With all that strife in the production going on, I managed to not burn out,  break down, or give up altogether. I made it through to the last performance of that show, and goddamn it, that counts for a whole lot. And on the day of that performance, everything changed.

Part 2     Part 3

Failure, or, How I Joined the Legendary Wailers, Part 2

Photo Credit: Hatfield Used Car Sales

Have Truck, Will Travel

       

        Our last performance of A Moon for the Misbegotten was a Sunday matinee, or "creature feature.” We called it that because Sunday matinee audiences are made up of elderly theatergoers and families with children who would rather be at the beach and were quick to let the ENTIRE theater know it DURING a performance. My roommate and fellow theater person, Siobhan, had invited me to go with her to see the Legendary Wailers show at the Wellfleet Beachcomber. Her boyfriend Geno was going, and because it was an all-ages afternoon show, she would bring her 5-year-old daughter Liza along as well. The show started at three o’clock. 

        Cape Cod Repertory Theater was a 45-minute drive from The Beachcomber, and my play started at two o’clock. On the drive over, I had hopes that maybe nobody would show up and we could just not do the matinee. Then when I got there, I found out that our final performance was the one and only sold-out performance of the entire run. The creature feature was definitely on and I was definitely going to miss the Wailers. Disappointed, I headed off to the dressing rooms to get ready. As I got into makeup, I pushed that further and further out of my mind and focused only on the task before me: surviving one more performance of this show without having a breakdown in the middle of it. 

        Somehow, I made it through. As soon as that curtain came down, I made record time getting out of costume and getting out of that theater. I don’t even think I stopped to say goodbye to anyone but David and Dennis. You see, The Wailers are known for starting at least 45 minutes late and then playing really long. I figured that if I floored it back to Wellfleet, I’d catch the last part of the show. Off I went. 

        As soon as I pulled up, a throng of people streamed out of The Beachcomber. It was pretty clear I had missed the show. Boy, was I disappointed. My disappointment soon faded into anxiety, as these folks started streaming around my humongous tank of a vehicle. This is the vehicle: a 1991 V-8 Dodge Dakota Longbed with topper. A year before, I’d packed that baby up with what was left of my belongings and made off for the Cape. But in a situation like this, I felt like an elephant trying not to step on schoolchildren. 

        I wondered how I was going to get back out of this parking lot. Like hell was I going to be stuck in after-show traffic for a concert I’d missed. At that moment, someone started thudding on my passenger-side window. It was a Black woman I’d never seen before yet somehow recognized. Her face wore a distressed and slightly disapproving expression. 

        “Roll don yir ‘indow!” The Jamaican woman demanded, thudding impatiently. Crowded around her were six equally distressed Black people, and three of them were…carrying instrument cases?

        “Op’n oop! We need arride!” Shouted the tall, thin, bald man in a Hawaiian shirt standing behind her. I rolled down my window.

        “What’s wrong?” I asked, nervously. I wanted to help, but I needed to know what was going on. 

        “Tank You! The woman said. Before I could ask what she was thanking me for, she reached into my truck window and unlocked the door. “Fams don lef’ us he-ah,” she explained as she opened the door and got into my truck. 

        “Go roun’ get in!” shouted the short, stocky man with fine, frizzy hair sticking out from under his straw pork pie hat. He had been was standing beside the tall guy. The other musicians scampered to the back of my truck. I’d left it unlocked, which I now regretted. 

        “What’s going on?” I asked,  “are you in trouble or something? The woman crowded into my truck, with the tall thin man and the short, light man squeezing in behind her. 

        “We don’ know whe-ah he go.” the woman said. From behind me, I hear the sound of clicking, creaking, and skittering as the musicians loaded up in back. 

        The tall guy quickly added, “He jus’ up an vanish.”

        “Wit the cah-go van,” muttered the short guy.

        Glancing at my passenger side mirror, I noticed that one of the musicians, a short, wiry guy with extremely muscular arms and a truly magnificent set of dreadlocks, had started playing traffic cop to get people out of the way so I can back out. At this moment, I caught just the right angle of the woman’s face to recognize her. I was sitting next to Marica Griffiths, one of the original I-Three. 

        Leaning over me and shouting out my now open driver’s side window, Marica shouted, “Drummie! It time to go!”

        “Yeah, man. I got you!” Drummie replied in an American accent. He nodded at me and said, “Go. I’ll guide you out!”

        Drummie was as good as his word. He got us out of there and pointed in the right direction before hopping up and diving over the now-raised tailgate of my truck to reach his bandmates. They were staying at the Viking Inn over in Eastham, and I knew exactly how to get there. 

        I had missed the show but still caught the band. And what a band they were. Beside Marcia Griffiths sat Vin Gordon, OG member of The Skatalites. Crowded in beside him sat a very vexed Glen DaCosta, OG member of Zap Pow. They had just rejoined the rotating lineup of backup brass the Wailers Band toured with. We chatted about Reggae, Cape Cod weather, and summer people as I drove them to Eastham. I was having such a great time, I'd forgotten about A Moon for the Misbegotten.  

        When we arrived at The Viking Inn, the band dispersed from my vehicle as quickly as they had set upon it. “Thank You”s and “Good Luck”s were gleefully shared all around. We all felt grateful and happy, which was certainly not how I imagined this day would go for me. Drummie Zeb even offered to smoke me out by way of a thank-you. 

        I was still buzzed by the contact high from the drive over and starting to really crave the nachos waiting for me at home in Siobhan’s fridge. To be honest, the day I’d had was beginning to wear on me. If I took Drummie up on his offer, I wouldn't get betting nachos any time soon, and I’d probably not be good to drive till the morning. I wanted nachos and my own shower. Thoughts thus settled, I thanked him kindly for his offer but declined. That was absolutely and without doubt the correct decision. If I hadn’t headed home right then, I’d have missed the most amazing thing that had ever happened in my life up until that point.

Part 1      Part 3

Bat Signal, or, What Actually Interesting People Do at Parties, Pt. 2

Photo Credit: Nenad Milosevic

  

My first thought was, “Oh, thank God! " Something interesting was finally happening. I sprang to my feet and listened hard, before turning to look where the sound was coming from--which was...behind...and...ABOVE me. Holy fuck did I whip around fast. I was closest to the house. Something might have been about to fall on me. I looked up and saw that nothing was falling, but on the other side of the upstairs windows, I could see people were running and screaming and...ducking? Yep. They were running frantically back and forth while screaming and ducking. Surprisingly, the "celebrities" shut up long enough to join the rest of us lawn partiers in looking up to see what the matter was. By then the first wave of upstairs patrons had begun pouring out the door and onto the lawn hollering and shouting.

“It’s a BAT!” they shrieked, “There’s a bat upstairs in the bar!” 

A bat. My mind wandered briefly to Cujo, but then I realized that bats fly at night and get trapped in houses sometimes. It was not rabid. This was normal behavior. Then through the intermittent screams and squeals, some sharp, hostile yelling started. THAT brought my attention back to the windows. A handful of young dudes were yelling tactics at each other. Then, they crouched down and would kind of hop up every few seconds and flung an arm overhead before hunkering back down. They were throwing things. At the bat. For the second time that night, a sinking feeling set in. With this, however, came a dread certainty: if those assholes kept that up, they were gonna maim or kill something. I was in NO MOOD to watch stupid men manhandle nature and hurt others if I could do something about it. 

          My feet propelled me forward without conscious thought. I had an idea of how to catch the bat without harming it, but I had to get up there fast if I was going to be able to. I practically parkoured my way through the throng rushing past me as I skipped up the staircase to the bar. I knew I would figure out the details after I got a look upstairs.

At the top, I stopped for about three minutes to take a good look. Aesop's upstairs bar was a skinny long rectangle at least 75 to 100 feet long and 8-9 feet wide. Candle-lit tables ran along the left wall under the windows. To my right was an impressively long bar crowded with barstools that fronted a glorious displayed selection of wine, liqueurs, fine spirits, and Sam Addams. Some of the tables and chairs were in disarray. A few barstools had been knocked over. On either side, anxious people awaited the end of the ordeal.

The bat was flying agitatedly in a figure-8 pattern about a foot below the ceiling. It easily avoided whatever was being thrown at it because it stayed high up and steered away from sharp noises and fast movements. The whole effect was as if 8-year-old summer camp archery students were trying to shoot down a tiny Jeff Gordon who was crushing the 1998 Winston Cup series. They didn't stand a chance of hitting anything but each other and innocent bystanders. That worried me, but I knew that if I could get the path cleared out, I could catch that bat.     

Now, I’ve never herded a cow before, much less a terrified bat. But my dad and all of his ancestors for the past four generations had done exactly that. Growing up, I listened to them tell their stories about life on the farm. They took us to the Pawnee County State Fair once to watch the cattle-herding trials and I listened as they argued about who was good and why. (I still sneak off to the Tulsa State Fair by myself one afternoon every year to watch the herding trials.) I remember being fascinated by how the really good cowboys used the whip's crack to steer the animals more often than they used the whip's lash. This is the technique that came to mind as I watched that bat. I knew this exact same thing would work to catch it. I figured that if I whip-cracked around the level of the bat’s head but nowhere too close, the noise and movement would cause it to change course. If I cracked intermittently on alternating sides, I could steer this bat right into the bathroom and out the window. Now, the bathroom was at the far end and around the back corner of Aesop's upstairs bar. The trick would be getting the bat around the corner AND keeping it flying low enough to go into the bathroom. I wanted it cornered there because the 6-foot ceiling gave me better odds at getting it OUT, or catching it if I could not free it. THAT is called thinking like a cowgirl. And why not? The drunken, half-assed "big game hunter" thing was absolutely not working.

    At the long bar to my right crouched a handful of patrons who were looking for a chance to escape but were too petrified to move. The assholes I'd earlier seen throwing things–were throwing cutlery. CUTLERY?!? Stationed under tables along the window line, they were real drunk, had shitty aim, and wanted to party. One of them had a long-healed broken nose, so they were definitely scrappers. Boy, did that complicate things. CUTLERY? Farther back, way on the other side of the room was Curtis the barback. In his hands was an upside-down yellow utility broom held like a club, as if he would knock the poor bat from the sky. Or perhaps knock one of the assholes down for getting too wild with the cutlery. CUTLERY! Most of the patrons had edged their way towards the stairs and were trying to get down them, but a few hardcore thrillists were staying knotted safely at this side of the bar near the top of the stairs. They were oblivious to the fact that they might very realistically lose an eye when the 3 drunk bat assassins started getting sloppy throwing all that cutlery. CUTLERY, y'all.

    "Sweet mercy of fuck!" I muttered to myself as I stormed over to the bar to find Betty The Bartender. She alone could help me do what needed doing. 

    We called her Betty but added “The Bartender” silently afterward because we all recognized her to be the epitome of a great bartender. If memory serves, Betty was one of several folks in Wellfleet who had rhizomed over from Worcester during the last generation. She was an unbelievably gorgeous late-30s blonde who was quick-witted and very kind. But Betty had a soul that was tougher than rawhide leather, and at times her tongue was sharp enough to cut glass--she was a complete badass. That’s the Betty who was tending bar that night: Badass Betty (The Bartender). She stood there, crouched down behind the bar but peeking over it, quite vexed. She intermittently looked at the bat to note its position. Her eye was on the assholes. Betty knew who the really dangerous animals in the bar were at the moment, and the bat wasn’t among them. She wanted the bat gone, but couldn’t get these fool men to listen to her and just clear out till it could be caught. I could tell on my way over to her that Betty was pissssssssssssssed.

Soon as I reached the bar, I looked her right in the eye and grinned as I said, “Hey Betty, can I get a free T-shirt if I clear this bat out of here?“

She coughed out a laugh and looked at me like I was crazy, but then glanced back at the domestic terrorists behind me. A randomly aimed clam knife landed on the bartop and skittered to rest between us. The assholes had a variety of sharp and dangerous cutlery at their disposal. Betty looked at it a second, then she looked up at me and grinned a bit madly at me. "Sure," she said. I told her I needed a tablecloth and help in getting those idiots disarmed and to the safer side of the bar. I needed a clear straight shot in order to work. I didn't want to make this run more than once.

What happened next is a bit of a blur. I’m pretty sure I used vulgar and unkind terms to order people over to the stairs. I’m pretty sure she threatened to ban stragglers from Aesops’ upstairs bar if they didn’t get out of my way. The bat continued to fly in an anxious infinity loop as we worked. All I know for sure is that our combined force forged a fearsome Boudicca rage that got the assholes and everyone else to the stairs or crowded at the safer end of the bar. Betty and I had gotten the path completely cleared.

I stood in front of the crowd by the stairs and counted the timing of the bat's flight. With no crowd and no rain of cutlery, the bat was flying lower and slower. Its altitude was about 10 feet. As I watched, I hitched part of my maxi peasant skirt into a loop and shoved it into the waistband. My skirt was now short enough to run in. The bat began to glide into its turn at the far end of the room. I looked at the gauntlet bar before me and mentally marked the obstacles and clear spaces. The bat cleared the turn and was on its way back. I kicked off my platform peep-toe clogs because I didn’t want to break an ankle and got into position. As the bat hit the halfway point between the far wall and the stairs, I counted down from 5…4...3...the little fucker surprised me! It banked into its turn ten feet short of where it had been. It knew I was after it. So I cracked that tablecloth in the air above my head and I jumped into action!

I usually have the grace of an arthritic penguin. That night, I leapt like a bobcat and hit the floor running, all while thundering the air with my tablecloth-whip. Somehow I had jumped far enough to close the distance between the bat and me. Dancing past and leaping over the barstools and chairs strewn across the floor, I whipped the tablecloth around the bat. The air cracked and hissed as I snapped just close enough to get the bat to react but far enough away to avoid actual contact. By halfway down the bar, I had the bat at eye level. It had broken into a dead heat and was flying like a tiny guided missile. Things were going according to plan. The bat then gained some air on the turn towards the bathroom, so I cracked high to the right and steered the bat down and away from the bar. Exactly as I'd planned, it flew into the bathroom. A rush of pure joy coursed through me as I darted in after it, immediately closing and locking the door behind me. I felt incredibly accomplished and impressed with myself.

I looked around and confirmed that there was indeed no working window in the bathroom. The room was also at least 10 feet by 10 feet with the toilet and basin shoved against the opposite corners of the far wall. Relieved that there were no real obstacles to deal with, I stood still and silent against the door, watching the bat fly. My peasant skirt had unfurled to its full length once more but I didn't see the need to fool with it. The bat flew a few circuits clockwise around the tiny room. If I wanted to steer it down low enough to catch it in the tablecloth, I needed to stand at the center of the room and start cracking the tablecloth when it cleared the turn at my right front. This would soon drive the bat to chest height, where I could easily scoop it out of the air and into the tablecloth. I sauntered to the center of the bathroom. Setting my feet wide apart and bending my knees for spring-like action, I started whipping the air and driving the bat down to a height where it could be captured. Plans were working out well until the bat surprised me: it flew far lower than I expected. I had a much tougher time steering the bat when it was darting about at hip-level. That was when the unthinkable happened.

The bat was looking for a place to shelter from my incessant aerial harassment. At one point, I was hunkered down at least one foot, and that's when the bat found its chance. Specifically, the bat saw the cave-like hollow of my skirt dangling between my crooked knees. The last time I saw the bat it was at hip height coming from my right, and the next thing I knew I felt a hard, small, heavy ball hurtle between my knees and hit my skirt--hard. Almost instinctively, I snapped my knees shut and froze in an agonized crouch. Thank goodness the bat did not actually fly UP my skirt because that would have been agonizing and unsanitary. But then again, I had accomplished my goal: I caught the bat.

I waited in ambivalence for a few still seconds. The impact of its landing had clearly stunned the little creature. I didn't want to move until I had signs of life. I had caught the bat, as planned. But now I had to get said bat outside into the night air in order to free it. If it was still alive. This would necessitate taking off my skirt WITH THE BAT STILL TRAPPED INSIDE IT. I would also have to walk through Aesop's Tables and down part of Main Street on a busy Saturday night IN MY UNDERWEAR. Suddenly, I had this strange notion to take a closer look at that tablecloth. It was a vapid Laura Ashely knockoff print in shades of dusty rose and sage. Hideous. But it would probably work as a half-sarong. Thus inspired, I carefully slinked out of my skirt and held it closed tight with one hand while I wrangled that tablecloth around my hips. It covered what it needed to cover, but the sooner I had my clothes back on, the better. During the process, the bat woke up and flapped frantically amidst its fabric prison. Dressed from the rescue, I emerged victorious from the bathroom.

I held up that skirt like it was a trophy as I rounded the corner and hollered, "I caught the bat!" Cheers erupted. Applause resounded. People laughed. The bat struggled half-heartedly in the recesses of my peasant skirt. Betty immediately started setting up a shot for me.

Then I cleared the bar and they could all see that I was wearing the tablecloth. Pretty quickly, everyone put two and two together and absolutely cracked up. I kept assuring them that the bat flew INTO my skirt and not UP it, but the townies preferred their agonizing and unsanitary version of the story to mine. I told Betty to hold my shot and asked her to get my T-shirt.

Brian, Phil's asshole friend who owned Aseop's and had been sitting downstairs at the cast party table, materialized abruptly. Apparently, he'd followed me up as soon as people had told him what I was up to. I guess Sebastian Junger had finally shut up about his movie deal. "What T-shirt?" he asked.

"The one Betty agreed to give me for getting this bat" I said, holding the wriggling skirt up to Brian's face, "out of your bar."

"No, no." Brian responded. "Betty doesn't have the authority to give you a T-shirt. You can drink free for the rest of the night, but no T-shirt." Standing well behind Brian and out of sight, Betty flipped him the bird with her right hand and held up the blue T-shirt she'd chosen for me with her left.

"Well, I'll definitely have to come back and drink after I free this bat," I said, winking at Betty. She rolled her eyes at the asshole and I headed for the stairs.

All was once more as it should be. The crowd parted with congratulations and guffaws as I walked past. They then flowed back into the bar, reclaiming the seats they had vacated only a few minutes earlier. Curtis righted chairs and barstools. Betty poured the drinks. Getting down the stairs without dropping part of the tablecloth was tough, but I managed to do it. At the bottom of the stairs, I heard gasps as the dining patrons caught sight of me: a glamazon wrapped in a tablecloth and carrying a multi-colored rucksack that clearly had a live thing trapped inside it. Some of them had no idea what had been happening upstairs.

When I emerged onto the lawn, however, I was surprised by scattered applause and congratulations. The quickest route to the street was past the table where I'd been sitting. As I drew near, I could see that the Big Names were lost once more in deep, narcissistic conversation. They completely ignored me. The girls, however, were totally focused on me at that moment. That's all I really cared about. They were completely thrilled and started talking all at once.

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Julie.

"Is that the bat?" asked Lorelai.

"Did it really fly up your skirt?" asked Elizabeth.

I answered each of their questions in turn: "Right? Yes it is. NO, that is not what happened." Then, I looked at them quite seriously and said, "Girls, remember: THIS is what actually interesting people do at parties," and held aloft the bat-skirt. They all cracked up at that, because I guess the conversation at the table had begun to wear on them by then. I said that I'd give them the highlights later on back at the house and then made my way out to the street.

There was less aerial obstruction for the bat to deal with down on the street level, as well as fewer people. I figured the bat might be a bit dazed from its ordeal and might need the open space to get its bearings when it was first released. Standing in the middle of Main Street, right in front of Aesop's Tables, I lifted that skirt high in the air and unfurled it with a shake. The bat fell out, caught itself, dipped once, and then gained air before flying off as if it was escaping hell.

I noticed that Betty's brother Charlie had parked his massive plumbing truck nearby. I ducked behind it to change. It took a few minutes to get my clothes back on because I had to wrestle my skirt back on with one hand while keeping the tablecloth on with the other. Eventually, I succeeded. Throwing the tablecloth over around my shoulders like a mink stole, I slowly walked back up to Aesop's. Looking at the people, the trees, the house, and the moonlight, I knew for sure--this place not only looked like magic; it was magic. Deciding to people-watch instead, I steered away from the cast party table and crossed up through the center of the lawn, weaving between the tables till I got to the door. It was time to drink. And it was getting a bit chilly. Wellfleet summer nights can get chilly sometimes. It occurred to me that maybe a cargo vest wasn't a bad idea after all.

Part 1

Bat Signal, or, What Actually Interesting People Do at Parties, Pt. 1

Photo Credit: Winslow's Tavern (formerly Aesop's Tables)

Would you believe me if I told you celebrities tend to be regular people, and they aren't always going to be the most adventurous or interesting people in a given room? Turns out, it's the honest-to-god truth. I learned this the summer after I moved to Cape Cod for a stage management internship with Wellfleet Harbor Actor’s Theater (WHAT) back in 1999. It’s not that I worked with any Big Names there. It’s more like Big Names summer in Cape Cod and the place is so strange and so cramped and so small that you are going to have at least a sighting, or two, if not some sort of run-in with one…or two. It probably won't be extraordinary when it happens. People need groceries, and 1999 was before cell phones and Instacart.

    I had a few–sightings AND run-ins during my 18 months on the Cape, and with one exception, they were generally nice folks–and completely unremarkable, normal people. Honestly. A party definitely counts as a run-in, especially if you’ve blundered unawares into celebrity company and kind of get trapped there by wild circumstances. I had no reason to expect anything from a celebrity sighting/run-in other than having something fun to journal about. And although that IS exactly what I got that night…it didn’t come from the Big Names at the table.

        I was closing down the theater and cleaning up after the final evening production of David Ives’ All in the Timing. (I actually think I was the ALD/light operator for that production.) We still had a "Creature Feature" (aka Sunday matinee) the next day, but it looked to be smooth sailing. The cast and I were tight. Which was great, because WHAT had packed us together like sardines into a creepy, decrepit old Captain’s House at 9 Eric’s Way that I truly suspected might be haunted. It was good to be friends with your roommate/co-workers in a situation like that.         Now, the guys in the show–Bob, Steven, Mike–were great and all, but folks came to see the three actresses: Kate, Julie, & Elizabeth As well they should have. Kate was tall and down-to-earth with short red hair. Best straightman I’ve ever seen play a stage to this day. Julie was a blue-eyed pixie of a blonde. Without fail, she could deliver exactly the right note for a scene’s punchline–she slayed. Elizabeth seemed aristocratic to me, willowy and small with long strawberry-blonde hair. Her humor is as dry as the Sahara, and her delivery has this stiletto edge to it-a sharp jab that cuts deep. Individually and together, they were as funny off the stage as they were on it. Julie had volunteered to save me a seat at the cast party, and that was where I was headed.         As I departed the theater and made my way to meet up with the gang, I noted the vomitous scent of rotting ass. That’s what Wellfleet smells like at low tide when the dead fish and oysters and the brackish marsh undergrowth are exposed to the air. Nobody warned me about it before I moved up here for the internship. There is nothing anyone can do about it but build up a tolerance. Folks still pay multi-millions to live there. It IS a lovely town, otherwise. One of the things that made Wellfleet particularly lovely was Aesop’s Tables on Main; it was a bit magical. Aesop’s was the sort of place where interesting random conversations happened as a matter of course. You’d typically run into the last people on Earth you thought you'd see out that night. You might even sight celebrities. Not that I had ever seen any there, or expected to. But the rumor seemed more plausible than an urban legend usually does...

        I knew that Julie’s summer fling Phil–I think that was his name–had scored us a table at Aesop’s. As I drew closer, I could see that the crowd was enormous. All the lawn tables were overflowing with people. Through each window on both stories, I could see people crowded around candle-lit tables. The place was absolutely packed. Typical for a Saturday night. Fortunately, I spotted my group and made a beeline. Lorelai, an actress from WHAT's upcoming production, had joined us for the evening. She was a puckish, platinum blonde Quebecois girl who always played ingenues and could nail any accent–fun gal. They had saved me the seat farthest from the conversation. Which I didn’t mind, because Phil was typically a bit dull, and his two friends. Were. Awful! I figured that sooner or later, the girls would start cracking wise and things would be fine. But as I looked at their faces, I realized that these chicks were hypnotized. My heart sank, but I stuck around. I was perplexed that these women were agog over guys like this, and I figured that if I stuck around long enough, I’d at least find out why.

        Phil was a balding business figure of medium height and average looks who was in his fifties. I have no idea what he actually did for a living or even if he was a townie or a summer person. He seemed affluent, connected, and kind of cagey, but he was charming and clever and Julie dug him. His first guest was an intense man with dark eyes, a hawkish nose, and tightly curled, closely cropped, dark but graying hair. He wore mostly black and looked like he was the type to stand back in the shadows and watch things. It actually seemed like in other circumstances he might be interesting. He sat, semi-scowling in deep concentration as he and Phil made backchannel noises at the talking man sitting with them. This guy, y’all. He was wearing an orange tank top and cargo shorts, but also had on a cargo vest--like he was an adventurer! He had sun-streaked hair, an artfully unkempt 9 o’clock stubble, and cheekbones that could cut glass. This guy embodied the type of tense, rugged, outdoorsy masculinity that you saw in pre-millennial Jeep ads. AND HE KNEW IT. Whilst he droned, he would strike straight-up model poses straight out of GQ. The girls were agog at this guy specifically. I wanted to vomit.         And what he droned on about was what EVERYONE was droning on about at the time: The goddamned Perfect Storm. Cape Cod has traditionally been a very literary/arty community but they are also WAAAAAY into their maritime history as sailors and fishermen. The Perfect Storm hit the sweet spot between these two cultural nodes, which resulted in a summer-long interest in the novel and its cinematic fate. The problem was, I hadn’t read it and I didn’t want to. The genre does not naturally appeal to me. It seemed like the sort of thing that guys who read Cussler, or Michener, or Clancy, would also read, and I also didn’t read those authors. Growing up, we read Cold War-era Sci-Fi, High Fantasy, Police Mysteries, and Christian historical commentary in my house. That other stuff seemed dull by comparison.         Worse yet, from what I HAD read about The Perfect Storm, it seemed the whole awful thing could have been avoided if enough of those assholes had listened to women. The whole Perfect Storm cultural moment pissed me off because The Perfect Storm--nature-- was not at fault for this disaster; idiot men were. The point of the book seemed to be to make them look like tragic heroes when their abominably short-sighted life choices here ruined ALL of their families’ lives. Mind you, I was planning to try to read the book later that fall in case I was misjudging it but wasn’t about to waste any part of my summer on any part of it. As I sat stewing, I realized that this conversation was different. They were talking about the movie. Well, the talking man was humble-bragging about getting a great deal with the movie rights. First, I thought, who talks like this on vacation? But then a sinking feeling started to set in. Finally, I leaned over to Julie and asked her who these guys were.         In a hoarse stage whisper that the entire table could hear–if not the whole lawn--a tipsy Julie tells me, “OHMYGOD Wendi! How do you not know? THAT’s Sebastian Junnnnnngeeeeer! Like, amazing, right? Phil knows him! That other guy, Robert Sabbaaaag, he’s the author of my new favorite novel Snowblind–which I will check out and start reading tomorrow. Did you know he LIVES here? Phil knows HIM, too!”

        Because I know people could hear her and see me react to it, I tried to seem nonchalant and pleasantly surprised by the news. In truth, I could not have cared less. I was then even more convinced that my estimation of the book was almost certainly spot-on. This dude was EXACTLY the type to transform the devastating consequences of men who ignored the good advice of smart women in a failed bid to manhandle nature into the tragic death of a brave and noble captain who valiantly battled with nature and lost. There is nothing noble about leaving widows and half-orphans without income behind you because you ignored smart women who told you not to go and do what got you killed. Strangely enough, that wasn't my biggest concern. Confusion was.         Ancestor vernation, the worship of nature, and the appeasement of Gods I can understand, but worshippers in the "Cult of Celebrity" make no sense to me whatsoever. I'm too busy for stuff like that. I have things to do. Moreover, even before I moved to the Cape, I suspected that celebrities were just normal people who'd led interesting lives. After meeting a few, I thought that celebrities are just normal people who've lived interesting lives AND are burdened by the fans’ relentless expectation that they wield pixie dust on demand or something. I just never took to that whole "cult of celebrity" thing.

        But THESE guys? They had quicksilver tongues instead of pixie dust, and they demanded worship. Which was a shame, because we had three of the most talented comediennes who’ve ever acted on Cape Cod sitting silently in awe, instead of dominating that ENTIRE conversation with their quick wit and high energy. We’d have all been better off if they had. I could see my evening sinking into an irredeemable slog, but I thought it was still early enough to find an actual good time. My thoughts got cut short by the sounds of screaming.

Part 2