THE THIRTY-EIGHTH PAGE

I didn’t “obey my impulses” because I instantly recognized her as a nut case and should have in that instant tossed out the ticket, the whole thing. It was too late to return pieces because my publisher’s negligence caused me to open the mail on the day of the performance.

I was a latecomer to understanding the clichés, too. Pride doth go before a fall. I went.

That afternoon I went to the theater in search of a photograph of her in the lobby. Apparently, her part was too small to warrant promotion.

It was one of those Synge songs, filled with grieving crones, wrapped in shawls, slathered with heavy makeup, wailing around on a darkened stage.