Jessie - the Passing of a Friend

Somewhere beneath the old woman’s hobble, the thickened waist and hips, the necessary eyeglasses and the slurred speech, somewhere beneath her painfully hunched engagement with the world she loved around her, I always imagined I saw the young girl that once was Jesse.  Why? A very simple answer: that girl still lived in her eyes, and I could always see her dancing there.

 You know how in books they are always writing things like “Her eyes sparkled”, or “The dazzle of her eyes caught his attention”, stuff like that?  Well, in my romance about Jesse M. I would have to resort to the same old wonderful phrases, because her eyes did sparkle, and whenever I took the time to look there, I was dazzled. And I remember how I was always surprised.

I first met Jesse when she sidled up to me – she invaded one’s space, I imagine in order to get a better look, since she was blind as a gentle old bat – and told me how much she loved a play I was in at the Playhouse. I forget which one, but it was early on in my career there, and I’ve never known my time in that small town without Jesse as part of the natural landscape. We all knew to expect her in her Opening Night front row seats, often alone, but lately always with a companion to help her navigate. And I for one, always played to Jesse.

Again, why?  Because once I knew her, it was impossible for me not to be aware of her presence, and why that is true for some relationships and not for others, I don’t know. But what I do know is: Jesse and I bonded quickly, as if we were meant to. As if she knew me, way deep down, and knew things about me that I did not even yet now about myself.  And as my time passed there, and as my job responsibilities grew from being just an actor in the company to other more administrative duties, it began to feel like Jesse M. was my patron saint, someone I could always turn to for advice, and in some cases, support.

            The first time I established the NEA’s POETRY OUT LOUD programming in our community there, I took Jesse to lunch (always committing half a day for the adventure, because Jesse was slow getting around, and one had to always tune in to her tempo or be lost), to find out the best ways to enrich the planned events, to get ideas.  She had been a revered English teacher in the coal counties, and I learned at lunch that day she used to insist that every singe student in her school memorize a poem and recite it once a week in her school library. They had to learn a new poem every time.  And those magic eyes of hers glowed when she described the way it changed some of the kids’ lives.

            She was in the front row at the POL Competition, cheering the 20 regional winners on to do their best. And then, when the final three were chosen, and needed funding to go to the Statewide Contest, who do you supposed wrote a check?

            But Jesse was always generous when it came to the arts in her community.

She was a patron saint to many, and I am sure all are grieved at her passing, because the support she gave was always, always beyond financial: Jesse gave of her heart.

And she made it clear that without each and every artistic contribution made by the groups she supported, not only would her life suffer, but the life of her community would as well. And Jesse was, and is in my mind, the very definition of what it means to live in and care for your own community.  She gave because , in order to live deeply and well, she knew she must give. She showed up, she participated, she commented and gave of her considerably sharp mind to each event. She was active, even when her body could not be.  Jesse had the sort of inner life an engaged person wishes for and spends a lifetime cultivating.  And she was generous in sharing it with all who cared.

            That is why we are all sad she’s gone.

            And that is why she will be sorrowfully missed.

            But, there are great actors, musicians and painters up there , Jesse.

            ENJOY!

Marian

      So cold,so cold today! Jeez!  What goin' on? It's that global warrin' stuff they're talkin' about on the news alla time at the Center. That's what it is! That global warrin' stuff, Marian mumbled to her self as she placed her large light blue straw hat on her head, just so.  She had a date to meet at the Center for the $1.50  lunch, and wanted to look the best she could.  So she took all the time she needed to make sure the favorite hat was at just the right angle to frame her face, and cover the bare spot in the wig she had chosen for this special occasion.
      Manny may not be much, she thought to herself, but beggars cannot be choosers! And she laughed loudly out loud to no one in particular, since she was alone in her SRO little cubby of an apartment.  It was that same laugh that so startled passersby whenever her internal dialogs got a little too much to contain, as she strolled along the streets of San Francisco, from one appointment to another.  She knew exactly why she was laughing - there was, after all, so much to laugh about - but no one else would have a clue, so the sharp and loud laughter would often startle people walking near her.  Sometimes, she noticed their feet even slightly left the ground, they were so surprised.  This made her laugh even more, though she'd try to tone it down, so they wouldn't know that she knew. That she saw what fools they were.  Marian had little patience for fools.
      Marian lived in that comfortable world of her own pretty much all the time now, though she would every so often peek out of it and engage in the world around her when something interesting caught her eye or her ear. In the case of Manny , however, it was his smell that caught her nose.  He had doused himself heavily with a mens cologne that had piqued her memory and her curiosity, so she opened the rest of her solitary senses to him, just long enough to chat, make a date for today and give her the energy to plan for it it.  She was hoping that by spending more time with him, she'd be able to remember what his fragrance reminded her of, and she hoped he would wear the same cologne today.  It was just at the tip of her memory, but just wouldn't come clear. Today she hoped it would. It's why she allowed herself the rare indulgence of making the lunch date with Manny in the first place. She needed to remember.
      Marian looked at herself in the spotty, freckled mirror and gave herself tacit approval: the hat was just right. Wrong season, this light blue straw, she assessed, but winter in San Francisco is like Spring anyway, so what the hell? She gave a fleeting thought to the hundreds of homeless out there on there on the streets who came to San Francisco for the weather, and for a moment felt the age-old resentment she'd always felt about people taking advantage. Damn fools oughtta get jobs, that's what they need to do! But then she reminded herself of her need to have compassion for those less fortunate, and her resentment faded away. Marian was once upon a time an ardent follower of the Dharma Path, and even at this time in her disheveled life, her practice could penetrate her usual fog and influence her thinking.  She added an extra dab of lip color from the tube she'd found in the trash can outside her back door the day before, blessed her good fortune having found it, and picked up her bags. Don't want to be late! For my very important date!  For a moment, Marian totally forgot what she was doing, where she was going and why - this happened often to her, many times a day - but suddenly clicked back into knowing, and with a sigh of relief left her apartment, carefully locking the poor excuse for a lock behind her. Never can be too careful!


      She'd counted out her two dollars for the bus the night before, from her plastic Tupperware container under her bed, and vowing to replenish the eight quarters as soon as she could, she tied them in one of her mother's pretty hankies and slept with them under her pillow. They were now sitting securely in the corner of her large shopping bag, so she knew exactly how to find them when the bus rolled up. She could walk to the Center, but on this windy cold day did not want her wig to look bad , so she decided to take the bus instead.  It would also be easier on her legs. Not doin' too good these days these old pins. Hell of a city to end up in, with bad feet and legs. Marian had stopped climbing the hills of the city a while back.  And made sure her routes to the various food kitchens she frequented were on as much of the flat part of this city famous for its hills as she possibly could.  Hell of a thing, she thought.

      Standing at the bus stop on Van Ness, Marian was grateful when one of those little folding seats became vacant , and though she felt her large rear end overflowing the small seat, and her dress being too tight into the bargain, she was glad for the chance to sit.  Kids in San Francisco are so nice here, she thought, and once again blessed her good fortune at making this city her home. Back in the Apple I'd be standin' til I dropped dead!  Yeah, the kids are nice here. Actually, the young woman who left  the seat free was trying to get as far away from Marian as she could, as if the "bag-lady look" Marian sported was a communicable disease.  But, Marian, looking through her customary rose-colored glasses, saw only the up side: this thoughtful young person was offering her a chance to rest.  Something about "the kindness of strangers" passed through Marian's mind. A retired actress, Marian had played all the great Tennessee Williams roles, among others, and the many scripts she'd memorized were as much a part of her mental landscape as anything else.
      Marian's bright orange lips were sticky with the old make-up, and her eyebrows, thickly drawn in, were slightly above where any normal brows would be. Her light blue polyester straw hat , with its extremely large curvy brim was perched atop her wigged head like a bird in flight, but nonetheless secure there. Her handsome face, with its large brown eyes, was pink with a favorite rouge, and her false teeth, a bit too large for her mouth, were clean and sparkling. She always saw to that.  The blue flowered rayon dress, tight across her breasts and stomach, encased her thickening legs and hips in far too little cloth to keep the wind out, but her full slip and two pairs of panty hose helped keep her warm. She'd been able to find two pairs of hose that had runs in different places, so she was grateful for that too. So much to be grateful for, really, Marian thought, as the bus pulled up to the stop. Oh, that's the nice lady driver! Oh goody! And Marian knew her two dollars were safe for another day: this driver never made her pay.  She flashed the woman at the wheel a large smile with her clean bright plastic teeth. And received a smile in return, as the driver place her small dark hand over the cash box, letting Marian sit for free.  This really is the best place to live!  I am so lucky! And she placed herself carefully in the one empty seat remaining between two elderly passengers.

      Suddenly, Marina felt a slight pinch in her toes. Aw, hell! Damned flip-flops! I knew I should 'a worn real shoes!  Marian considered her feet and toes one of her best features, despite the pain they brought her, so for this special date, she'd opted to wear her favorite summertime flip-flops, the ones with the sparkly blue thongs that went between her toes.  She loved wearing these in the summer time, and they matched her dress perfectly. The problem of course were the two pairs of panty hose she'd had to wear for warmth: cramming the sparkly thongs between her big toe and her second toe on each foot,  against the very resistant netting of two pairs of pantyhose was difficult, but by letting the panty part of the rigging come down perilously low on her hips, she managed to get the flip-flops on firmly between the toes, at last!  Now, however, not only were the toes protesting (she probably should have cut her toenails first), but her panty hose were in grave danger of falling all the way down below her ankles when she finally had to stand up.
      Damn! Aw well, I'll worry about that when we get there. Right now, I've got a seat, and I'll ignore the pinching. I've felt worse, God knows!  And she gave a little chuckle. Marian had the marvelous ability to be in the moments of her life, and ignore whatever unpleasantness tried to push its way in. So, she placed a pleasant smile on her painted face, tilted her head back so her fine profile was framed well against the pale blue straw, and looked forward through the wide front windows of the city bus.  Her lunch date awaited, come falling panty hose or no, and she looked forward to remembering what his cologne reminded her of:  a mystery, and a good warm meal lay ahead.

Marietta

     "So, now we begin!", continued Leonard, our producer. "After the required Actors Equity business meeting, rehearsals will get underway with a full company read-through, Sam playing his music, and Carl, in his own special way, singing the words." The company laughed warmly, knowing what notoriously bad singers lyricists always were. " But first, let me introduce you to the person who will captain our ship across Oceans - more laughter from the company at his clever use of the show's name - a woman whose work on special movies like Around the Corner and Avenue A , proved her to be , in our view,  the perfect and necessary director for our show. A woman of vision and sensitivity, our directress, Marietta Braceley!" And in she strode, from the hallway, where she had obviously been awaiting her entrance.
      Why she had not been in the room with the company, as part of the show's earliest "family building" moments? Was the grand entrance her idea or Lionel's? What purpose did it serve?  To "up her ante" with us? To make her seem more powerful, more important?
      As the company broke into applause, I looked over at Stanley, our stage manager, who was also looking at me with a slight grimace, as he lifted his eyebrows and subtly pointed his thumb in Marietta's direction, raising his eyes upward as if to say "get a load of her". I silently agreed and knew at once where Stanley stood. No one gets on Stanley's bad side until proven absolutely guilty, and clearly, the jury was already in on Marietta Braceley. Her entrance certainly made me feel uncomfortable. I thought "What a dumb thing for her to do."
       But , there she was, our leader, hopefully fearless, and our primary collaborator, the person whose concept of the show and ability to inspire would mold us all, willingly, into one sensitive communicating performance unit. Her place in the scheme of things was more important than anyone else's now that the show was in rehearsal, and I could sense the roomful of performers leaning forward, as flowers lean toward the sun. We were in her hands now.
     Marietta Braceley, tall and slender in a bony way, but somewhat thick around the hips, at least in the gray polyester slacks she wore, seemed a woman who would never wear a dress or skirt. She'd feel her ankles would be too exposed, too vulnerable.  At least that is the odd thought that crossed my mind as I got my first look at her.  Her hair was a black-gray frizzy halo of '60's vintage, and her face was long, strong-jawed and pale. Her photochromic aviator glasses grew darker in the brightly sunlit rehearsal room, and I made a silent bet with myself that she would never be without them, and that we would never see her eyes. Turns out I was right. Meanwhile, her blouse was in no way stylish or up to date, with its rounded little collar and small short puffy sleeves, and her too-short pants legs were met at the ankle by frilly-topped white anklets, which seemed to be inching down into her spanking brand new white Reboks. Her pierced ears had what looked like little bears dangling from them, and we were soon to learn that her earrings always kept fashion pace with her socks . I remember thinking she must have had a young daughter who shopped for all her clothes.
      This tall, angular woman seemed uncomfortable in front of us, uncomfortable in those pants, that blouse, those earrings, but who could blame her? With a five million dollar Broadway musical on my hands, no matter what I was wearing, I would have felt uncomfortable too. She took a very deep breath, and opened her mouth to speak.

Miranda

      She was short, fat, with rolls of flesh that jiggled when she laughed and a jowly face that was broad and greasy with summer sweat. Her light brown face was made even shinier by the huge splashes of garish red make-up she'd unskillfully applied. I couldn't tell where her real eyebrows were because she had plucked them to total bareness and had drawn a thin ,dark pencil line hight above the eye sockets. The sweat had smeared one of the pencil lines into an upward expression of smudged surprise.

      Her neck was bulging with two rolls of fat and dark creases of dirt separated them, even when she threw her head back in a gale of laughter, spreading her large magenta lips into a wide smile. Her teeth were not good. Yellow, bits of whatever she had been eating stuck between them.

      This grotesque, uncomfortable looking Puerto Rican woman, who was maybe forty-five years old, might once have been an actress on one of those Spanish-language stations that abound on cable networks in New York City. Every gesture, as she spoke to her companion on the humid subway platform, was too large, every laugh too pointed and loud. It was that laugh, and her companion's loud "Oh, Miranda!!" in response,  that had attracted my attention , and then I couldn't tear my eyes away from her grandiose and dramatic movements. Miranda was utterly fascinating in her ugliness and seeming discomfort, with her too-tight flowered dress, its stained underarms and the sandals she wore that cut into her chubby feet. Even her toenails seemed painfully painted, with a screamingly bright orange polish that looked like it had been on those toenails too long.

      I marveled that she could have even reached her toes to paint them, her stomach was so big, but the polish looked so old, it occurred to me she may have applied it before she got fat. And then she looked in my direction, and her small , sparkling eyes fixed directly onto mine, and I knew she knew I was staring at her. I managed a weak smile, which she greeted with a small smirk of disdain, and I knew she also knew how harshly I was judging her. Grateful that the subway arrived at that moment, I stepped onto it and felt the relief of its coolness, reminding myself of where I was going: downtown to an important rehearsal studio where I knew I'd be meeting and working with "my kind" of people. When an actor begins a new show, I believe he also begins a new family and, at the very least, a new place for his soul to live begins to be built and furnished. If all goes well, a new home is created for both actor and audience,and I felt confident that this would occur on this new project.  

     The doors opened at my 14th Street stop, and gathering my things, I made my way to the opening doors, dreading the heat that would slap me the moment i left the car, but excited to get to rehearsal. Rushing toward the stairs, the Puerto Rican woman was all but gone from my mind, until I heard, behind me, her loud laugh , and her friend's "Oh, Miranda!" And I was thinking about her toenails, as I pushed open the rehearsal hall doors. 

      

Rhonda from Arizona

      Rhonda  was raised by her grandmother in a luxurious retirement community in Arizona.
      Raisa took charge of raising her only grandchild when Rhonda's mother Billie was arrested on drug possession charges in a raid on a Lombard Street "horse" den in San Francisco, and swearing that she would never give Rhonda back to Billie, the 66-year-old grandmother took complete charge of her 4-year-old granddaughter, making Rhonda the one and only year-round child resident of the Shining Canyon  Village right outside Phoenix, Arizona.  She'd had to go before the Village Board of Directors to plead her case, but without much protest or resistance (except from that one pesky woman named Dorothy who lived down her street), Raisa was granted permission to bring her "poor, drug-addicted - from-birth orphaned granddaughter"  to live with her: it would give Shining Canyon Village a mission, and distinguish it from all the other carved-from-the-desert retirement communities surrounding them. They would have their very own child for the entire Village to raise.
      Gladstone Payton - the Jamaican doctor who had delivered Rhonda in Arizona, and had subsequently become her obstetrician in Shining Canyon Village - used to joke with Rhonda that he and she were the only two "outsiders" in the otherwise white,  elderly, conventional population there, and from Dr. Payton, Rhonda learned about the wider world. He was the only person of color throughout her  childhood, and at first, Rhonda thought he was that dark because he had spent a lot of time out in the sunshine.  But eventually he explained to her about where he was born - his beautiful Jamaica - and even at an early age, Rhonda determined to go there, visit its gentle rolling hills and wide ocean, and maybe even live among the kind, colorful people, all of whom, she imagined, were as interesting as Dr. Glad.
      Another thing she decided, as she grew into her teen years, was to one day settle and live in a place that had cloudy weather, and that also had people younger than 66 years of age.  As much as she adored her grandmother, who, by the way, did not allow her to watch television more than one hour each evening, it didn't take Rhonda long to realize there was a entire world full of difference out beyond the flat desert confines.  She soon knew way deep within that she would simply have to leave all that was familiar as soon as she could, and go find her mother, who kept having her sentence prolonged because of bad behavior in her correctional institution near San Francisco.
      So, on a day soon after her graduation from high school, Rhonda got into her used Ford Focus - a graduation gift from the Retirement Village - and drove the twelve hours it took to arrive in the City by the Bay.  Her San Francisco life was soon to begin.
  

Chance = Change: Marcia Lewis - May She Rest in Peace

Chance = Change: Marcia Lewis - May She Rest in Peace

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Jerome the Third

      Sallie's upbringing in Villejo had been meagre, and from childhood she had the sort of skinny body that fat would never even consider clinging to, but then, a strange thing happened when she met Jerome the Third. An energetic thief, whose every crime was petty, Jerome the Third made a big deal out of everyone calling him Jerome the Third, as if calling him that would at least sound important, no matter  how unimportant he always felt. He referred to it as his "calling card"that would distinguish him from his cronies, and even Sallie had to admit when she first met him, she'd had visions of a Jerome the First and Second who may have somehow been wealthy, and that some of that wealth might trickle down to the Third. But, of course, like everything else with Jerome the Third, this fantasy soon wafted away, and what she was left with was a mean man who nonetheless liked to take her out to fancy meals.
      And, like never before in her life, Sallie began to put on weight. Making love with Jerome the Third, bumptious and not always pleasant, seemed to magically change her metabolism, and soon, all the angles that first attracted Jerome the Third to her disappeared under mountainous curves of soft flesh, and mere months after getting together, Sallie was  healthy, happy with how she felt, and getting fatter without  regret.  Jerome the Third, at first in love with her bony body, now fell deeper in love with her as she began to bloom larger, and he was especially turned on by the fact that each and every meal he bought her gave her such intense happiness that, for the first time in his life, he felt he had a true purpose: to find finer , more exotic restaurants to take her to, so he could watch her devour every rich morsel of the food laid before her. Sallie ate, and Jerome the Third was nourished.
      Then, as of the ground had been sufficiently prepared, Sallie got pregnant.
      Without even knowing if it was a boy or girl, they decided to name it Chaz. Jerome the Third wanted no Fourth to eclipse him, and Chaz sounded smooth and sexy to them both, so their son (no thought of a daughter, really) would be named Chas on his arrival into their world, for which Jerome the Third began to plan and connive: a next "job" had to be found, and this one had to be his largest petty crime yet.