Joan Marcus / Thomas Breen file photos
The sidewalk critics proclaimed the writer's antics as "somewhat entertaining" but "more than a little pathetic."
On a recent Saturday, a minor miracle and impromptu theatrics occurred on Chapel Street.
And, If you have nothing else to do for the next few minutes, I’ll deliver here the particulars.
We had tickets for “Escaped Alone” at the Yale Rep. I was eager to see this production, as its creator, Caryl Churchill, is known as a bold, witty, even “ferocious” playwright. And the Independent’s own critic, Brian Slattery, assessed it as “hilarious and harrowing.”
Even so, I knew that Churchill dabbles in absurdism, and the works of theater of the absurd’s Eugene Ionesco, Harold Pinter, and Samuel Beckett never sent me home in a terrific mood. Too extreme, I’ve thought. I mean, what’s so great about that peeled banana in “Krapp’s Last Tape”? Not truly representative of human foolhardiness.
But I have changed my views ever since my own improvised prologue preceded an afternoon of histrionics.
The minor miracle I refer to in the first paragraph — I know I risk credulity by suggesting it actually happened – was that a parking space opened up on Chapel right across from the Rep.
Hah, you say. Impossible at showtime on a Saturday afternoon in New Haven. But true.
It’s also the case that my good fortune at that point showed its limitations. The space looked to me a little tight, and so my first attempt to back into the spot failed. As the second, the third, and on and on.
Meanwhile, people sitting and standing in front of the Yale Gallery took notice, and one of them pointed at me, as if to say, “I haven’t been this entertained since I heard a customer ask for ketchup at Louie’s Lunch.”
My wife, Suzanne, offered helpful counsel, such as, “Why are you turning the wheel that way?” It was a question for which I had no effective response.
After recognizing the impossibility of convincing me what to do, she excused herself, got out, and walked across the street.
So I was left, alone and almost exhausted, to inch up, inch back, turn the wheel the wrong way, and sweat onto my velour seat.
After an arduous eight minutes, I managed to squeeze in, although still two feet from the curb. I congratulated myself, and then went to put money in the meter.
But as you know, it is a local law that if you find a parking space in the Elm City the meter won’t work.
I tried to insert a credit card, but couldn’t get it in. Nothing was showing in the display space. Not the time left from the previous parker, not “What? Just because you found a spot won’t save you from a red flag on your permanent record.”
This is when Suzanne, observing my frustration, shouted from the south side of Chapel, “Lary, that’s the wrong meter!” The crowd behind me heard this, seemed amused, and I was tempted to pass my fedora around and collect spare coins, as a busker in the subway, if we had a subway.
“Ah,” I said, with gusto. And, once having then tended the right meter, I was ready to cross the street. Another mistake, of course.
I performed, I admit, a jaywalk. But it was an uneventful jaywalk, in that no vehicles were speeding my way. That is, it was uneventful until I was within a few feet from my destination.
There was a tomato-red car of enormous proportions sitting in a parking spot, blocking my way. So, I did what any sane person would do: walk to its rear, and head toward the curb.
But that’s when haywire cropped up again.
The enormous tomato-red car began to back up, and, on its present course, would lead to a lamentable headline on this very website: “Opinion Writer Perishes from his Own Opinions.”
Fortunately, though, a hue and cry arose from the sidewalk, and I was alerted to the peril.
The fact that I am writing this account now may indicate to the astute reader that I took steps, if a bit ungraceful, to save myself.
There were six witnesses who saw the finale of my performance– Suzanne and a group of five other adults. The strangers, apparently, had not anticipated being treated to such a pre-show show, and couldn’t help but offer reviews.
The four women were unanimous. They agreed with Suzanne that they had just witnessed an excellent recital of idiocy.
The lone male figure, a man of middle age, came to my lonely defense. “You did fine,” he said.
Once inside the Rep, safely, we took our seats and soon noted that the critic Slattery is right in his assessment about the play’s worth. I had an etched smile on my face, and a horror in my kishkes. However, it takes Caryl Churchill 55 minutes in this short play to nail her point about human folly.
I had done it more efficiently, and economically, as my show was free. And, because I go downtown often, I’ll be happy to put you on the waiting list for my next appearance.
A parking space on Chapel St near the Yale Rep at showtime is a minor miracle. And parallel parking as we age gets more difficult with arthritis. And are there any working parking meters left in the city? I never seem to find one.
Parking in the city is an ordeal.
So I agree, you did fine.