May 27, 2005
Last Saturday, I was driving home from the tiny town of Columbus, TX, where I'd gone for a family gathering. I wasn't on the highway for a minute before I got pulled over for speeding. What's worse, my insurance card was out of date (proof of insurance is mandatory in Texas at all times). I explained to the very nice officer that I'd been working out of town and some of my business had been left undone.
"Where were you working?" he asked.
"New York City," I replied.
"What kind of work do you do?"
"I'm an entertainer." The truth in a nutshell. But it wasn't good enough.
"What kind of entertainer?" the officer grilled.
"...I'm an actor."
Did I just say that??
"What kind of actor?" He insisted. "Are you onstage or what?" For all he knew I could've been a porn star (in a little SUV with a wife and kid).
"Yes, I am a Broadway actor!"
The officer let us off with a warning. A second chance.
That was the first time I'd ever used that sentence, and it felt really strange passing through my lips. It felt like a lie. What I am is a guy that got a job on Broadway, that's the reality. I haven't even logged any stage time yet. But I have an Actors' Equity membership card now, that's the reality, too. So technically I was telling the truth.
That was kind of how I felt about myself during the whole hot and sweaty week that I was at home. I had a bunch of instruments and gear around the house, but I didn't feel like a musician (especially around all my musician friends). I had a son, but I didn't feel like a father. I had a wife, but I didn't feel like a husband. For a solid week, I didn't know who I was, or how I was supposed to feel, so I just felt uptight. I was this uptight guy who didn't like anything, and I didn't like him, either.
So when the week was up and it was time to return to New York, my wife asked "Did you have a good time?"
"Yeah, sure," I said.
But like Captain Willard in Apocalypse Now, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle. Some place where I at least knew what the hell I was, even if it was only a guy who got a job on Broadway. But once I checked back in with the company, found Manhattan cold and rainy and was told by Don that I could indeed take some more time off and go home again, I knew it was a good sign. I'd been given a second chance. A chance to forget about whatever it is I think I'm supposed to be, and just be what I am at that moment in time, with authenticity, and embrace it. This week things are working out much better.
And that, by the way, folks, is what our little show is about.