THE THIRTY-NINTH PAGE

As the bows were taken, the thought of meeting this pathetic character performer nearly overwhelmed me. She knew my seat number; she had to know I was there.

If I abandoned her, she would realize that once again Life had rejected her and abandoned her to her lonely search for self-truth. I supposed I could manage a cup of coffee or a glass of wine with a Village crone. Although there may be passing cruelties revealed on some of these pages, I am usually considered a kind person, and that night I behaved like one, as I hauled on my overcoat, jammed my ski cap over my ears, and moved out into the lobby, the only conceivable meeting place at the small theater.

As it was a very cold night, the lobby was jammed and did not clear out promptly. I stood patiently, thinking she could find me, but no one stopped before me. In time, there was but a handful of stragglers: two elderly gentlemen lighting cigarettes for each other in an elaborate romantic gesture, a cute “Village girl” in a soiled raincoat, a couple of Gabor-type women, made even larger by their fur coats; a tired-looking woman of indeterminate years, who had been selling tickets at the box office; and an aging boy with a copy of the play’s text.