August
24, 2005
When
each performance of Lennon reaches its final minutes, the swings aren't
required to stick around. Since this was a perfect day to be outdoors, I left
the theatre during the last ten minutes of the Wednesday matinee. As I walked
out, the scene addressing the death of John Lennon was in play. I had an errand
to do in the upper west side, one which would take me past the Dakota building
on the corner of 72nd St and Central Park West. As I rode the subway I wondered
how I would feel passing the archway of that famous building with actor Chuck's
sobering account of that infamous night still playing in my head?
I stopped pondering that question just long enough to realize I had boarded the wrong train. Without thinking, I had hopped on the E and found myself in Midtown East, and barely managed to get off before I ended up in Queens (I'd made this same mistake a year before). Fortunately I wasn't too far off course and could just head back the way I came, but I would have to get off and catch another train in order to get pointed north again. I got on the first one that came, which was the D. What I didn't know (but damn sure know now) was that after 59th street, the D becomes an express line that doesn't stop until 125th! This is convenient if you live in Washington Heights, but not for where I wanted to be. I watched helplessly out the window as I zoomed past the 72nd St station, knowing I was in for a long ride. I had no choice but to catch the next southbound express, which was an A, and ride it all the way back to 59th street. Once I got there I crossed over again to the Uptown platform and eventually caught a local B train that would finally drop me off at 72nd street, nearly an hour after I'd set out.
Normally it takes about ten minutes.
By this time I had forgotten all about the end of the play and was glad to be above ground at last in this terrific weather. I quickly found what I'd come for, which was simply a bag of coffee (?). While I was in the neighborhood, though, I decided to look up my friend Jenny, whom I haven't seen in two years. She and her husband have become parents since then, and I met their son for the first time in Central Park on the Great Lawn. Jenny, I learned, had been through a rough time. She had lost her own mother earlier this year and has just resurfaced after several months of stress and grief. I could identify. My mother-in-law died a few years ago, and in fact my song "The Heavens Cried For You" (a favorite of Jenny's since 9/11) was written for Sasha during that excruciating period. I never thought it would mean anything to anyone else.
In spite of all this talk of untimely death, though, our brief half-hour was anything but heavy. On the contrary, it was joyous and high spirited, accented by the beautiful park, the gorgeous weather, and the reunion of old friends. I couldn't help but feel that there was some poetic justice in the scatterbrained detours I took in getting there. Having the senseless murder of a beloved icon fresh on my mind might have shifted my energy the wrong way. No one needs a downer on a day like this.
I went back underground and caught the C train (the one I should've taken originally) back to 44th street in time for the evening show.