Viva Pancho is a Mexican restaurant in Times Square, on West 44th Street, just off Broadway. It’s verde awning reads, “Viva Pancho”/“Home Of the Sizzling Fajitas,” in chili pepper script. Neither quaint holdover from the old Times Square, nor modern day restaurant group vision, it could very well be situated in a New Jersey strip mall. I suspect most of their business comes from Red State tourists who are relieved by the unassuming nature of the exterior, and reasonable prices on the menu in the window.

The entrance takes you into the bar, which features a rectangular counter that’s pushed into the corner, and seems too big for the small room, like an unfortunate sectional in a Manhattan studio apartment. The walls are mirrored, I suppose, to give the illusion that the space is bigger than it actually is, while having the consequence of forcing you to see yourself sitting there. The other, better option is to look up at the muted soccer game on the TV hanging overhead. A single strand of colored lights dangles above the dining room archway, as though someone forgot to take it down after the party. During the day, the room is awash in anemic sunlight.

Though I’ve waited tables at Virgil’s, the barbecue restaurant next door, for a decade, I’ve only been to Viva Pancho three times. The first was shortly after being hired. Several of us, who had all started at around the same time, and were destined to become the next senior staff, went there as a group following a shift. Everything was new, and we’d yet to discover ourselves, or our regular spots, Jimmy’s Corner and St. Andrew’s, the other direction down the block. Though no one complained, it didn’t feel right. And we never went back. It was kind of like Freshman Orientation Weekend, and making out with the girl in your dorm, who would eventually ostracize herself for the stuffed animal collection overcrowding her bed. The memory is slightly fuzzy, and somewhat embarrassing, but mostly just weird.

On another occasion, while leaving work, I happened to glance in the window and notice a coworker and friend, sitting alone at the bar, smoking, and sipping a slushy red margarita. Impulsively, I reached for the door. He seemed uncomfortable with the encounter, like I’d caught him waiting on a tryst. I begged off when the bartender approached, and made a hasty exit, purposely avoiding looking back in the window as I hurried past. Maybe he was meeting someone. Or maybe he was embarrassed to be discovered alone in Viva Pancho. Or maybe, after a particularly trying shift, he didn’t want to be bothered; which was why he was there in the first place.

The last time was when a new-hire waitress, whose drink was margarita, felt like a margarita after a lunch shift, and convinced me, as we happened to be getting off at the same time, to join her. Said waitress always felt like a margarita after a lunch shift. Viva Pancho was her hangout. She headed a regular Viva Pancho clique. So I had no expectations. But what the hell, I figured. After an hour of our venting about dealing with the public, and two or three margaritas, or maybe it was two hours and four margaritas, I looked in the mirror and saw our miserable faces at that sad bar in the middle of the afternoon and knew that wasn’t going to work out.

Everyday, I walked past Viva Pancho without giving it a thought. On my way to work. And on my way home. Five days a week. For ten years. If I ever did consider it, it was in regard to how it had remained in business for so long. Restaurants come and go in this city. New Yorkers swarm a new place, like wolves on a fresh carcass, then abandon it to the vulture Bridge and Tunnel and tourists who pick over the bones until there’s nothing left. Yet, Viva Pancho had survived the revitalization of Times Square without so much as a facelift.

When the economy slumped, Viva Pancho took to marketing in order to foster business, in the form of an ancient Mexican man in traditional sombrero and sarape -- or, at least, a kitsch version thereof. He didn’t call out to you with a deal, in the manner of the Little Italy barkers. Or shove a menu at you, like they did on Theater Row. He simply stood there, the embodiment of Viva Pancho. For months, I passed without acknowledging him, and without receiving acknowledgement. Then one day, while on my way to work, we looked at each other.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hey,” I replied.

It was not a casual hello. This was a friendly greeting. One that recognized a relationship. He knew me, and I knew him, even though we’d never so much as exchanged a glance. The next day, it was back to our agreed upon anonymity, even if the dynamic was altered, a level of self-consciousness added. Everyday, I passed. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month.

How many of these stealth friendships was I involved in? There was the thin security guard who walked with a transistor radio tuned to NPR, seemingly always just ahead of me on the ramp to the Staten Island Ferry in the afternoon. There was the older lady with hair like Marie Antoinette, and a penchant for paperback thrillers, who sat across from me on the ferry on Tuesday mornings. There was the middle-aged African American man in the skullcap from the 1 Train, who was quick to give up his seat for a lady. On the corner of Broadway and 44th, there was the man with the kabob food cart, and the man who sold New York street scenes and celebrity 8x10s, and the caricature artist, and the Chinese calligraphy artist, and the fortune teller, and the guys that hawked knockoff designer handbags from a sheet unfurled on the sidewalk, that they snatched up when the police approached. And the kids that asked, “Do you like comedy?” -- which counts, because they didn’t ask me. And Batman, and Spiderman, and Elmo and Cookie Monster. And, of course, there was the man in front of Viva Pancho who, one time, broke the fourth wall and said “hello.”

Sometime ago, while passing Viva Pancho, I realized the ancient Mexican in the theatrical Pancho Villa costume was gone. Maybe he ran into immigration problems. Or finally had enough of that oversized sombrero and gold lame sarape. Hopefully, he didn’t meet a worse fate. Most likely, since he wasn’t replaced with another Pancho, he’d been given the pink-slip. I guess the economy had recovered sufficiently, or the summer tourists invaded, or gone back to work, as the case may be. Or, perhaps, it was determined, in a Viva Pancho departmental meeting, that it was no longer cost effective (re: someone’s bonus was on the line) to employ a living, breathing Pancho. Who knows, maybe one day he’ll suddenly reappear. Viva Pancho.

Tom Diriwachter's new full-length play, "Age Out," runs to the end of January at Theater for the New City

That summer, my best friend, Bobby, went to stay with his grandmother in Virginia, sending me a postcard of blue hued mountains, which I displayed on my dresser. In his absence, I’d pleaded with my parents to let me take guitar lessons. Recently, a neighbor, Nancy, had begun lessons, which planted the seed that blossomed into a plan of serenading Bobby when he got back, and showing him what he’d missed out on while he was gone, maybe even, someday, dedicating a song to him at the Garden, for a crowd of flickering lighters. My teacher, Ronny, with his greasy black bangs, and beard that grew untrimmed down his neck, reminded me of Paul McCartney on the “Let It Be” cover. Our first lesson was the high “E” string. I spent the week plucking it, filling the house with an atonal riff, like some giant mosquito in a fifties sci-fi anti-nuke parable. We did a string a week. As we made our way through the six strings, I wondered what could possibly be next.

Summer ended. Bobby returned. I told him I was taking guitar lessons, and he started lessons, just like that, catching up with me. My progress had stalled, as my fingers weren’t strong enough for chords, and I’d become frustrated with the seeming pointlessness of scales. Plodding through the Guitar 1 book, we finally got to a song, something titled “Sparkling Stella.” Ronny challenged me with, “When you learn it, you’ll recognize it.” I fumbled over it for weeks, but it still didn’t sound like anything I’d ever heard. Conceding, Ronny played it for me. It was “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Sensing my disillusionment, he asked, “Do you like The Beatles?” At Ronny’s urging, my parents bought me a Lennon and McCartney songbook, but the beginner’s version of the rock classics were disappointing; even if I did enjoy Ronny’s rendition of “Michelle.”

Out of the blue, Bobby quit. When I asked him why, he simply shrugged. Discussing the matter with my grandfather, and hinting that I was considering quitting too, he encouraged me with, “Someday you’ll be glad you stuck with it.” My guitar sat untouched all week, only to be taken out of it’s case for a half hour at Lane Music. One Friday, during a particularly frustrating lesson that had me on the verge of tears, Ronny asked, “Are you a good student?” There was a hint of sympathy in his tone. I explained that I was in SP, Special Progress, the designation for the advanced class, with a ninety-two average, and already reading at a twelfth grade level – and all I did was watch TV! His reply was that I reminded him of himself at my age, and we both smiled. Shortly after my heart-to-heart with Ronny, he went on “vacation,” only to never return. This offered a reprieve of several weeks, during which there was a decided skip in my step, but eventually Lane Music called, and my return was arranged. I was introduced to a new teacher, Steve, a dead ringer for Art Garfunkel, with his lanky build and blond ‘fro. Steve quickly soured on my act and, weekly, would ask, “Do you think the guitar’s going to learn to play itself?” repeating it until I answered. And no, I didn’t think it would.

Meanwhile, in J.H.S. 49, my cruise through seventh grade came to a screeching halt with the announcement of “Hobby Week,” wherein each student would have to get up in front of the class for a presentation on his hobby. I was going to do candle making. Candle making wasn’t my hobby, per se, but that Christmas I’d received a candle making kit and, under my parents’ supervision (i.e., my father did everything), made a candle. It would be easy, I’d reasoned. I still had the instructions, which included a diagram that lent a legitimacy to the process, and would make a great handout for the class. Besides, it was the only thing I could think of. As my scheduled presentation neared, I showed my candle making kit, and candle, to my classmate William, who was unimpressed. “Candle making’s for girls,” he said, and I couldn’t argue with him. William built models of World War II aircraft, and subscribed to a modeling magazine, and belonged to a modeling club, and even had his own airbrush. Wistfully, I told him he had no idea how lucky he was to actually have a hobby. “Why don’t you bring in your guitar!” he exclaimed. So, at the last minute, I scrapped candle making, and put together a presentation on guitar. Sitting in front of my peers, I named the six strings, and played the natural notes, and struck some major chords, which mostly went thud. As I was packing up, Ms. Van Name lead the class in applause, encouraging me to play something. I mangled “Sparkling Stella,” and slumped back to my seat soaked in flop sweat.

In 1977, New York City was held captive by a serial killer using a .44 to gun down young lovers in parked cars. There were shootings in The Bronx, and in Queens. In July, The Post published the Son of Sam letter, in which the madman explained how he was instructed to kill by his neighbor’s dog, and it seemed like the only thing anyone could talk about. After Stacy Moskowitz was killed in a parked car in Brooklyn, a rumor spread locally that Son of Sam was making his way to Staten Island. Amid much whispering, my parents sat me down at the kitchen table and explained how they were concerned about parking outside Lane Music with everything that was going on, and asked if I’d understand if my guitar lessons were put on hold. In August, a parking ticket tripped up David Berkowitz, and the city breathed a sigh of relief. I never went back to Lane Music.

Last summer, Tom Diriwachter had a one-act play, "Pests," in The Drafts at Horse Trade 10 Minute Play Festival, as well as a new full-length play, "Age Out," at Theater For the New City.

Inside the terminal, the usual afternoon crowd, shift workers and tourists, waited for the door to open. I moved into place between the two giant aquariums. An announcement sounded: “The three o’clock ferry is approximately ten minutes late due to unusually heavy foot traffic at the Whitehall Terminal.” Now I was going to be late for work because of the Yankees. The final indignity, in a season rife with indignities, for a Mets fan. Backing off, I turned to the aquarium at my left, as the large white fish, anthropomorphized so that its face appeared somewhat distraught, stared at me.

Sports Illustrated picked the Mets to win it all — I know all about the curse. It was over by the All-Star break. And then — The Horror! — a Yankees/Phillies World Series. I wasn’t even going to watch, I told everyone who asked. I didn’t care who won. Or, more precisely, couldn’t bare to see either win. Then last week, my play, “Avoid Direct Sunlight,” was produced at The American Theatre of Actors, and after Wednesday’s Opening Night, my friend Brandon and I, looking for someplace to talk about the show, and catch up, ended up at the Cosmic Diner, and Game One was on the TV mounted on the wall. When I saw the Yankees were down 2-0 in the sixth, my reaction was, “Yeah!” Who was I kidding? As much as I despised the rival Phillies, I couldn’t root for the Yankees. As we ate, passersby would regularly gather at the window to catch a glimpse of the action on the screen. By the time our waiter, who’d grown old during his eternal shift, had brought us the check, the Yankees were down 6-0. When I got to the ferry, I checked the score on my phone, and was relieved to see that the final was 6-1. No pie tonight, I thought. Over the next week, I caught snatches of the game here and there. Pitch by Pitch on MLB.com, while waiting for the boat in the Whitehall Terminal on my way home from the theater. The Jumbotron in Times Square, which made Pedro’s curve appear to break like a whiffle ball. A bar on 8th Avenue on Halloween, where Dean — who’d come to the show that night — and I anxiously waited out the A-Rod home-run video review with three cheerleader slasher victims. When the call was overturned, and A-Rod awarded a home-run, the bloody cheerleaders cheered.

The PA system sounded again, announcing that the boat was approaching the dock, and would be loading shortly. Yankees fans flooded the perimeter of the terminal. Hundreds of them. Thousands. All wearing jerseys. Carrying banners. Even inside the holding chamber, chants of “Let’s go Yankees!” and “Twen-ty-seven!” filled the air. Someone clanged a pot, or, at least, had an electronic device that simulated the sound of a pot being clanged — that’s more what it sounded like. In a Proustian moment, I was suddenly overcome by nostalgia. When the Yankees won the World Series in ’78, I was a sophomore at Curtis High School on Staten Island. The day of the championship parade… I was in the school library… I don’t know what I was doing in the library. Was it a scheduled library period? Was there such a thing as a scheduled library period? Whatever. I was in the library. And Angela Benn — I can still picture her in faded jeans and ski jacket with orange and brown chevrons at the collar — asked if I wanted to cut school and go to the parade. And I said no. (I should confess, I had a crush on Angie, the depths of which led me, after she commented on how she liked my T-shirt featuring an iron-on Siberian Husky, along with “Sarge,” the name of the family Siberian Husky, to change out of it during gym, and present it to her that afternoon.) Everyone’s got regrets. Two or three that wake you in the middle of the night, shirt damp. And then a longer list, that seem to come out of nowhere, like catching a glimpse of someone in a crowd that you think you recognize from your past. This would be, like, number 89 on my list.

The door finally opened, twenty minutes late, and the crowd pushed forward. The man next to me said, “Did the Yankees win it today?” I offered up a sideways glance, to discover an aging biker in a scarred black leather motorcycle jacket and bandana, from which hung a grey ponytail. His face, though weathered, was kind. Like he’d found peace through sobriety. “They won on Wednesday,” I said. He looked confused. “Today was the parade.” This made sense of the world for him, and his expression was overcome with joy. He explained how his TV had broken just prior to the World Series. When I commiserated with him, he said, “I don’t care that I didn’t see it. Just as long as they won!” Emphasis on “they.” The Yankees. Heads turned as a fight broke out by the entrance, and when I turned back, the amorphous crowd had shifted as it squeezed through the door, and the kind biker was gone.

Settling into my regular seat on the top deck of the boat, I put on my headphones, and took out my play to work on the rewrite. As we approached Manhattan, I packed up my bag and made my way to the lower deck, so that I could exit ahead of the crowd. I negotiated the mob of Yankees fans milling about in front of the terminal, and hurried down to the subway and, dodging a man with a guide book, oblivious that the doors were about to close in his face, jumped on the 1 Train just before it pulled out of the station. We arrived at Chambers simultaneously as the 2 express, and I scurried across the platform and squeezed in, and got to Times Square just a few minutes late for work.

This summer, Tom Diriwachter has a one-act play, "Pests," in The Drafts at Horse Trade 10 Minute Play Festival, as well as a new full-length play, "Age Out," at Theater For the New City.
 

Cast and crew are spread out in the theater seats before rehearsal begins. I’m sitting next to “The Doyle,” our stage manager, drinking a Venti Iced Americano and going on and on as he nods his head. “You start making art because you have this need to express yourself. It comes from somewhere deep within. The thing no one tells you, is that if you’re gonna be an ‘artist,’ you might as well work on Wall Street. Or, maybe, sell used cars.” Finishing my coffee, I contemplate life. “I’m not gonna stop writing, but I don’t know if I want to do this anymore.” I desperately suck my straw, filling the theater with a decided slurrrrrrrrp. “I’m serious, I might just go back to writing and putting it away in my drawer.” My words are a result of the anxiety I feel as Opening Night approaches.

The actors are nowhere near off-book, getting lost, and unable to find their way back. The production is over-budget, burdening the producer/star, who’s sunk his life savings into it, leaving him prone to fits of rage. Things are so tense, that one day, during a run-through, three separate fights breakout on stage. Grown men, in each other’s faces. Ready to throw down. This project was conceived as a labor of love. And it had been going so well. The turning point was when the director, working on a handshake, demanded money.

“Who do I send my bill to?” is how Jason broaches the subject. Caught completely off-guard, Dean tells him that they’ll talk. Dean puts Jason off as long as possible, hoping, I guess, that he will reconsider, and withdraw his request, or, maybe, it’ll all just go away, as arbitrarily as it appeared. Finally, an impromptu meeting occurs between Dean and Jason while we’re on a fifteen minute break from rehearsal. The cast and myself wait silently in the hall, like anxious family in a hospital emergency room. Two of the actors have discovered they have a mutual friend. It’s the kind of inapt conversation, irritating to those forced to listen, that always seems to occur at times like these. When we’ve exceeded the fifteen minutes, a pall settles over the group, for fear the news is not good. Finally, the door opens and rehearsal resumes, and I figure everything’s going to be all right. But as Dean and I leave the theater that night, he laughs. He starts laughing, and he doesn’t stop. It’s the laughter of someone cracking under the pressure.

Standing outside the makeshift plywood fence at the construction site down the block from the theater, Dean’s rambling. Much of what he’s saying doesn’t make sense, but what I do gather is that Jason has demanded X amount of dollars, precisely calculated from the first day of rehearsals through the run of the show. It’s a lot more than we’d speculated. Staring into the pit, it was all clear. Jason had manipulated everything right from the start, casting a Svengali-like spell over the actors, while undermining Dean’s authority as producer, and treating me, the playwright, like an unwanted guest. He’d planned it out to the last detail. Right down to timing his demand so that it coincided with the day we got the fliers back from the printer, his name, literally, stamped on the show. Dean was convinced that Jason, with his icy stare, and bracelet of red beads, was in league with the Devil.

“Let’s pray!” Dean exclaims.

These are the first words uttered in some time. Dean had offered to drive me home, so we could discuss Jason’s demands. Heading downtown, Dean navigating his maze-like shortcut, we shook our heads at Jason’s audacity. Speeding on the BQE, we considered our options: If we paid, it would put us in the red. But if we didn’t pay, and Jason walked, there was a good chance a couple of the actors would go with him, and there wouldn’t be a show. When we started blaming each other, we stopped talking. By the time we drove over the Verrazano and into Staten Island, it was more a matter of who was going to break the silence. “Let’s pray!” is a real icebreaker. I realize Dean’s staring at me as a car’s headlights catch in the rearview mirror, flashing a rectangle across his face. His expression is intense. Eyes piercing.

“Okay.”

“You want to?”

“Yeah.”

“I was gonna take us to this place. That I used to go. That I go to. To pray. Do you wanna go there?”

“If you want to.”

“What the hell! It can’t hurt!”

Dean makes a quick turn through the gate of Mount Manresa Jesuit Retreat. As the car proceeds along the black drive, it strikes me that the property is vast beyond what it appears from the outside. We park in the lot of an official building. Without hesitation, or saying anything, Dean gets out of the car. Grabbing my bag, I throw my shoulder into the door.

The trunk of the Buick is open, and Dean’s leaning in as I come up behind and wait. I cast a sidelong glance at the building. It’s dark. Not a light on. Looking more intently, I search for any faces peering out the windows. A sudden gust of wind has me look up at the large trees that surround us as the leaves turn inside-out. A shiver runs down my spine.

“Can we be here?” I ask.

“Wha?” Dean responds, like the question doesn’t make any sense.

“Are we trespassing?”

Dean heaves his knapsack over his shoulder, and hurries off. Going after him, I descend an embankment, helped by the arthritic hand roots of a tree. At the bottom, I look around for Dean, afraid I lost him. But he’s waiting in the shadows, and continues on when our eyes meet. We walk single file along a trail. With us both wearing packs, it must appear we’re on a mission.

“I’ll tell you what you do,” I say. Given the circumstances, and the dead silence, and the fact that it feels God is watching, it seems like the most important thought in the world. “Tomorrow, you tell Jason to honor his verbal contract. You say, ‘If we have to close this show because of you walking, we’ll sue you for every penny we lose.’”

Stopping in my tracks, I watch as Dean gets further and further away. I have to hurry to catch up. It’s hard keeping up with him. We keep walking till my legs start to burn. Looking back, I can’t see the building. I don’t see anything but trees. I’m wondering if I could find my way out by myself if I had to.

“I’ll take over as director,” I say, as though it’s a difficult decision.

Dean shoots me a look over his shoulder.

“Rearrange my schedule. Take two weeks off of work. Whatever it takes.”

Dean doesn’t say anything.

“Nobody knows the play better than me. Whatever I lack in experience, I more than make up for with my knowledge of the script. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t directed before. I’ve directed a bunch of my own one-acts.”

He still doesn’t say anything, so I force his hand.

“What do you think?”

“It’s too late for that!”

“You said all along that I should direct!” I snap back. Then more rationally: “We’ll fire Jason tomorrow. The most important thing. We won’t even give the actors a chance to walk. We’ll explain exactly what Jason did, how he extorted us. And I’ll pick up where we left off tonight.”

“Now you say this?”

“I’m stepping up, here.”

“I said we should fire Jason after he was late for the first read-through. You said no. I wanted to fire him when he fell asleep during rehearsal. You wouldn’t let me. You usurped my authority as producer. And kept me from doing my job.”

“I was trying to hold the production together!”

“I JUST HAD A KID!” Dean yells, his voice fighting its way through the trees and into the night.

The path finally opens onto a grotto. An immense structure of stone. I follow Dean down some steps and around the other side and through an archway, to discover an ancient evergreen tree, in front of which stands a glowing Jesus. The brightness with which the statue is illuminated has me searching for the light source. There doesn’t appear to be any wires. My eyes turn upward to the full moon.

When I turn back, Dean’s on one knee, desperately going through his knapsack. My heart quickens. How did I get here? I wrote a play. Is my writing so virulent, that this is what it brings out in people? If I make it out of here, I’m done as a playwright. Dear God, if you get me out of this, I won’t write another play, I swear. Dean pulls his hand out of the bag, and the moonlight flashes on…a knife! But then the planets revolve, and Dean’s holding an “Asterisk” flier, which he folds in half, then in half again, and again, like he’s passing a note in class, and offers to the basket at Jesus’ feet.

My shoulders slump as I finally let go of the breath I’ve been holding. It’s a sobering moment, and I’m overcome with the realization that I must now go on with this show. Dean’s praying. Talking rapidly. Some words audible, others lost on mortal ears. He’s quoting scripture, but the gist of what he’s praying for is not faith, or strength, or peace of mind, but for Jesus to come to Jason in a dream and rid him of “the evilness.” Eyes closed, I silently pray for faith, strength, and peace of mind.

Tom Diriwachter recently optioned his last play, “Asterisk,” to an L.A. theatrical producer, and is currently shopping his new play, “Age Out.”

As an eleven year old, I’d never seen a naked woman. This was 1974. Before cable reached us. Before the internet. Before DVD. Before VHS, even. Being an only child, I had no brother to teach me, and no sister to spy on. The closest I’d come, was a series of drawings of topless women that my friend Dennis’ older brother, Gary, had hung on his bedroom wall. The drawings, done with magic marker, in psychedelic colors, featured several well endowed – fantastically endowed, actually – women. Dennis and I made regular, carefully orchestrated trips to Gary’s gallery, where a collection of Picassos could not have inspired more awe.

Given this general state of curiosity, and boredom, a trip to Chinatown held about as much anticipation as a trip to China. This was in the wake of Nixon’s visit to China, so it was a hot button topic. Ping pong was all the rage. Second only to, perhaps, panda bears. Much of our curriculum, or at least extra-curricular activities, concerned that which was Chinese. Hanging over our heads all year, was the threat of the trip being cancelled should we not behave like the young ladies and gentlemen we were expected to be. It was a crisis when one of the parent chaperones dropped out the week before. As the days counted down, there were release forms to sign, and fees to pay, and an address by the principal that included the admonition, “Anything purchased in Chinatown must first meet the approval of a chaperone.” The morning of the big day, in some sort of candy apple version of temptation, my mother and father provided me with a five dollar bill in “spending money.”

Essentially, the trip consisted of walking through Chinatown, en route to a pre-fixe dinner. Folded in half, and then folded again, my five dollar bill remained safely tucked away in my jeans’ pocket while other kids spent freely, mobbing magazine kiosks and gorging on candy, and swarming the bins outside Chinese chachki shops, grabbing up imitation jade jewelry, Chinese coins worn down to slugs, and polished stones like they’d discovered treasure. Someone’s newest prized possession Chinese handcuffs wowed a crowd for the ephemeral minutes before it was broken. One boy bought a turtle in a plastic tank, smaller than a lunchbox, that he joyously swung by the handle, until it finally drew the attention of a teacher, abruptly ending the shopping spree.

The restaurant was one of the more touristy places on Mott Street, not too unlike any Chinese restaurant you could visit on Staten Island. Much to everyone’s delight, pitchers of Coke were placed on the tables and quickly refilled once empty. Dinner was a chaotic affair, with thirty or so pre-teens wired on sugar and caffeine, and more interested in commenting on the food than eating. By chance, I was seated at a large round table with, among others long forgotten, Kevin McDonald and Roy Foxx. Kevin and Roy were best friends, and the biggest delinquents in the class. They both smoked, and would prove it by lighting up at an after school rendezvous when challenged. But what they were most infamous for was terrorizing the school over a several month period with Chinese Stingers – bobby pins, coiled like a ram’s horns, so that upon prodding, they would spring, or “sting.” (It’s doubtful whether “Chinese Stingers” were actually imported from China, but the nomenclature was yet another indication of the Chinese craze.)

Kevin and Roy were two characters with whom I didn’t readily associate. So, instead of joining in the “dinner conversation,” I fondled my five dollar bill, wrestling with the moral dilemma of whether to return it to my parents, hence, proving to them my prudence, or declaring it spent, and adding to my nest egg. At some point I sensed a commotion, and turned to see Kevin holding a magazine open on his lap under the table, while Roy served as lookout. It took a minute for the image on the page to come into focus, more a consequence of my mind than my eyes, but when it did, I saw my first naked woman. Asian, breasts supple, squatting power-lifter style and peeing into a wine glass. The world would never be the same. Even if it proceeded without so much as a waver.

Following dinner, the tour continued as we made our way back to the subway. The shopping also resumed, albeit under stricter supervision. With a teacher at my side, I purchased a “Chinatown” magnet, its Roman alphabet letters scripted in faux Chinese and guarded by a dragon. Capping off the day, we paid an impromptu visit to an arcade where the highlight was a live blue chicken encaged in a tic-tac-toe machine that, for a quarter, would meet all challengers. Offering the best bang for an eleven year old’s buck – ever! – this had them lining up. The chicken hustled me for the last of my money.

I proudly presented the “Chinatown” magnet to my parents as a souvenir, and they hung it on our refrigerator, where it remained on display for years. During puberty, I had a recurring nightmare about being pursued through the streets of Chinatown by an Asian woman with long red fingernails. It’s night, and I’m running, gasping for breath as I look over my shoulder. I duck into a doorway to hide, but her hand tauntingly reaches around the corner, fingernails flashing like knifes, and I take off running again. It wasn’t until adulthood that I made the connection between the trip and the dream. To this day, I have a thing for Asian women.

Tom Diriwachter has worked as a playwright in New York for over a decade. He is currently at work on a book of non-fiction.

I send a lot of mail. I still pay bills by mail. Then there’s Netflix; I mail three red envelopes every week, religiously. But mostly, I send out query letters. I’m a writer, and mail hundreds of query letters a year. The mailbox I employ is in Times Square. On the NE corner of Broadway and 43rd. I work on 44th, and pass the mailbox on the corner of Broadway and 43rd on a daily basis. There are actually two mailboxes, one next to the other. Coming from the main Times Square subway station on 42nd, I stop at the one closest to the corner, and if that’s full, proceed to the second one.

When I mail something local from the mailbox on Broadway and 43rd, it usually gets there next day. I can mail a Netflix at four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, and Thursday I get an email from Netflix informing me that it’s arrived. I’ll watch a Netflix over the weekend and, rather than mailing it from where I live on Staten Island Monday or Tuesday, wait till I go back to work on Wednesday to mail it from the mailbox on Broadway and 43rd. I call the mailbox on Broadway and 43rd, tongue planted firmly in cheek, the “magic mailbox.”

Recently, I put together a mailing for my play, “Asterisk.” “Asterisk” was produced for three weeks in June, at The American Theater of Actors, and this query is an attempt to get it picked up by a bigger theater, hopefully Off-Broadway. It takes longer to do a mailing than you might imagine. You have to research each theater company as to their submission policy. Some accept a full script. Others request a writing sample. Most simply want to see a query. Then there are those that won’t read unsolicited material, or don’t offer any guidelines. I query them, too.

I’d spent the weekend putting thirty or so mailings together. Several scripts. Some writing samples. And a stack of query letters. While I go out of my way to mail letters at the magic mailbox, manila envelopes I mail at my local post office, sacrificing efficiency, rather than lugging around my own mailbag. So, Wednesday afternoon, I leave for work early, and stop at the St. George Post Office. I surrender my stack of scripts and writing samples with a silent “Godspeed,” and make a panicked last second decision to check the weight of the query letters, since they contain not only the actual query letter, along with standard SASE, but also synopsis, Backstage review, and article that MLB.com did about the play. The mailman, after unofficially weighing a letter in the palm of his hand, then officially weighing it on a scale, informs me it requires an additional 17¢ postage. He offers to do it for me but, much to his chagrin, I decline, and instead purchase the requisite number of stamps–there actually is a 17¢ stamp–that I need for my stack of query letters, and stamp them on the Staten Island Ferry.

Walking through Times Square, I get the query letters out of my bag and flip through them, checking postage and labels one last time as traffic and humanity pass me in all directions. But when I pull the handle on the magic mailbox, it jams. It seems to be full more often since assuming the guise of R2-D2. Maybe it’s just my imagination. Or perhaps, the businessmen and -women working in Times Square are more nostalgic than you’d give them credit for. And bigger fans of “Star Wars” than I. Opening the companion mailbox I hear, “MMMM-MNNNN!” I turn to see a mailman hurrying toward me. Actually, mailwoman. An African-American woman in her forties, to be precise. Who proceeds to admonish me for nearly mailing my regular mail in the Airmail mailbox.

I guess I should have recognized that the second mailbox was for Airmail. But prior to the magic mailbox’s conversion to R2-D2, the two mailboxes appeared identical. For nine years, I’ve been mailing mail from the corner of Broadway and 43rd, the local mailbox my mailbox of choice, but regularly settling for the second mailbox, or what I now know as the Airmail mailbox, and my mail has always arrived without incident. I explain that I wasn’t aware that it was an Airmail mailbox, but she doesn’t accept my ignorance as an excuse for breaking the law.

“Why do you think there are two mailboxes on the corner?” she asks.

“I thought the second one was a backup,” I say.

She just stares at me.

“The first one is often full,” I explain further.

She looks me up and down.

“It’s full now.”

“Didn’t you ever read the notice?” she asks.

“No.”

“No?”

“I never noticed it.”

“It’s right there.”

She points out the notice. Right in front of the drawer. I don’t have anything to say for myself. Victorious, she grabs the mail out of my hand and inspects it, manhandling my weekend’s work. My life’s work.

“Is this for a company?” she asks.

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s mine.”

“All this?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Humn.”

“This is a query for my play.”

She considers this. “You’re lucky this isn’t for a company,” she says. “If this was for a company, you could be fined.”

“Fined?”

“Up to a thousand dollars.”

“A thousand dollars?”

“Per letter.”

“But just companies get fined?”

“You can be fined, too!”

“I’ve been using these mailboxes for nine years. And it’s never been a problem.” Huff. “I’m late for work.”

“You been doing this for nine years, and you didn’t figure out that this mailbox is for Airmail?”

I point to the magic mailbox and, in my best late night talk show host delivery, say, “This mailbox looks like R2-D2. For all I know, it’s for intergalactic mail.”

She doesn’t laugh. I’m glad I didn’t go with my joke about how, since the mailbox looks like R2-D2, that must make her C-3P0. Or I might have been looking at upwards of thirty grand in fines. I promise that I won’t use the Airmail mailbox for my regular mail anymore, she throws my stack of query letters into her basket, and I quickly lose myself in the crowd.

I’ve kept my word, and haven’t put my regular mail in the Airmail mailbox. When the magic mailbox is full, I stick my letters back into my bag and continue on to work. Sometimes I mail them on my way home. But usually, I forget, and have to mail them the next day. A couple times I’ve forgotten altogether, and discovered them in the bottom of my bag, several days later, worse for wear. It’s completely thrown off my Netflix schedule, and made me late with an Amex bill. Not to mention stalling my career.

Epilogue Following my encounter with the mailperson, the Airmail mailbox on Broadway and 43rd disappeared, leaving R2-D2 all alone. Recently, I noticed that the R2-D2 mailbox was back to being a regular, earthbound mailbox. I wish they’d put a second regular mailbox on the corner, to handle the overflow.

Tom Diriwachter has worked as a playwright in New York for over a decade. He is currently at work on a book of non-fiction.

ATA gained some notoriety when Urinetown was produced in the Chernuchin Theater, an Off-Broadway classified theater, in one of its incarnations on the way to Broadway. My first play, Seven Dog Years, was produced concurrently by ATA in the Sargent Theater, the Off-Off Broadway theater, one floor above. I’d often nod to the Urinetown cast in passing, as they smoked cigarettes out front or BSed in the stairwell. Occasionally, you could hear the swell of the Urinetown orchestra during my show. Usually at the most inappropriate moment. It frustrated me at the time, but now it makes for an amusing anecdote.

James Jennings, who wears his khakis like they’re a uniform, is the founder and Artistic Director of ATA, and one of the great storytellers. ATA produces twenty or so plays a year, and has been in business for over thirty years, so James has a million stories. Since ATA produced my first two plays, Seven Dog Years and Great Kills, and my third play, Asterisk was produced in association with ATA, I’ve been privy to a few of them. He’s quick to rattle off a list of the actors who got their start at ATA: Bruce Willis, Danny Aiello, Chazz Palminteri, Kevin Spacey, Dan Lauria. The list goes on. But this story involves Elliott Gould, who never actually performed at ATA.

One afternoon, following an Asterisk rehearsal, I happen upon the producer/star, Dean, in the Artistic Director’s office, engaging James in what appears to be a serious conversation. James is behind his desk, and Dean’s leaning over the desk, both hands flat on the desktop, elbows locked and hyper-extended, like he’s holding up a lot of weight. They’re whispering. I duck away, but James has spotted me, and calls out, “Can I help you?” Stepping into the doorway, I apologize for interrupting, explain that I just wanted to say goodbye to Dean. James cordially invites me in. I enter, and sit at one of the two chairs in front of the desk. Dean takes the other one. James’ office looks like a garage sale, cluttered with props and memorabilia from the hundreds of shows ATA has produced over the years. Stacked TVs make a totem pole in a corner. Swords lean against a wall, like pool cues in a local bar. Hanging by the door, is a knockoff Jackson Pollock that would only be passable from the last few rows of the theater.

I’m admiring the collection when James asks how casting went. I tell him that I’m really excited with the actors we’ve found. He then asks how I like the director. The casual tone of his voice, in contrast to the frankness of the question, gives me pause. James nods as he waits for an answer. Dean also awaits my response. There’s a bond between them, like a shared glance, though they don’t actually look at one another. Playing it close to the vest, I tell him that I have faith Jason will get the show up on its feet. This is the slightest vote of confidence one can afford a director, so James stares me down. My expression grows more serious. I preface my next statement with a disclaimer about how I wouldn’t bring this up unless he’d asked, and explain how I feel I can confide in him because he’s my mentor. Finally, I say, “But if I have a concern, it’s that he’s interpreting it as though it’s a straight drama, where there’s a lot of humor.” James considers this, then says, “If I remember your play, it’s not very jokey. The humor comes more out of the characters.” “It’s not a sitcom,” I say. “The humor will come,” he assures me. “That’s often the last thing a director will pull out of it. Wait and see what it’s like when he’s got it up to speed.” This breaks the tension, and Dean and I both relax in our chairs. James, too, seems more comfortable as he rocks in his swivel chair, and proceeds to offer a tutorial on producing theater, which leads to the story of Elliott Gould and The Men In the Truck.

In the ’70s, ATA produced a show called The Men In the Truck, an original play by a first-time playwright. It was about the four guys in a remote truck, the crew broadcasting a football game. It got rave reviews from The Post, The News, and The Times. This drew the interest of a producer, who raised the money to take it to Broadway. The one concession: the lead be replaced with a bankable name. Enter Elliott Gould. Gould was a huge star at the time. Trapper John, and Philip Marlowe, and Ted, of Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice. He could open a show. But Gould was a movie star, not a stage actor. And, as James puts it, “So drunk and high all the time, he couldn’t remember his own name, much less his lines.” Out of desperation, the script was rewritten, cutting Gould’s part down in order to make it easier for him to learn. Just prior to Opening Night, Gould was fired. Another actor was brought in, but by that time the script was a mess, and the poor guy never stood a chance. The show got panned by the same critics who loved it at ATA, and ran for exactly one night on Broadway. It never got produced again, and the writer never had another success.

Asterisk did open. The cast was inspired. And it was pretty funny. Audiences received it enthusiastically, and Backstage gave it a good review. It hasn’t been picked up yet, though. Maybe it’s not good enough. Or commercial enough. It might have a better shot if it were a problem play. But, certainly, its failure is at least in part due to how, on the day we got the fliers back from the printer, the director asked, “Who do I send my bill to?” Jason was working under a verbal contract that guaranteed no salary, and his demand came out of nowhere. It was a no-win situation. If we paid, it would put the production in the red, virtually eliminating our plans for publicity, and making all for naught. If we didn’t pay, Jason was going to walk, along with, we feared, the actors whose confidence he’d gained, and the show would fold. This was a stressful time for Dean and myself, with a lot of desperate phone calls, and arguing, culminating in Dean driving us to Mount Manresa Jesuit Retreat on Staten Island, on an impromptu midnight mission to a stone grotto encircling an ancient evergreen tree and moonlit statue of Jesus, where he prayed for Jesus to come to Jason in a dream and rid him of “the evilness.” We paid Jason. Leaving the trunk of Dean’s Buick full of fliers. I wonder if someday this story will be part of James’ oeuvre?

A lot happens in the lobby of ATA. Most obviously, the sale of tickets. Business is also conducted. A casting agent looks through the press packet. The publicist schmoozes the critic from Backstage. But, primarily, it’s where theatergoers congregate. Being Off-off Broadway, most in attendance are friends and family. Hence, every night is like a social event. A wedding, on a good night. On not such a good night: a wake. There’s hugging, and handshaking. Some crying. Phone numbers are exchanged.

Before the crowds, the lobby belongs to the company. Actors stretch, and do their vocal exercises. Meetings occur spontaneously between producers and directors and writers and actors. There’s the occasional tantrum. But mostly, time is killed until the audience starts arriving. The newspaper is read. A Diet Coke sipped. Artists just sit. Undoubtedly, a lot of dreaming takes place. And, I’m sure, more than a few reach the conclusion that a life in the theater is not for them after all.

It’s a Sunday matinee of my play Asterisk when Dave, our production manager and regular box-office attendant, can’t make it. As playwright, and person with the least to do, nothing to do, actually, I volunteer. Running the box office is more complicated than I’d imagined. It’s not just taking tickets. People have questions. “Where’s the bathroom?” is probably the most common. Followed by, “Where can I smoke?” and “Where can I get coffee?” A number of people are lost, and need redirecting to the Off-Broadway Chernuchin Theater on the floor below. You also have to review the Smarttix list, for those who have purchased their tickets in advance. It’s a short list, on a long piece of paper. Then there’s the audience extras. Audience extras are affiliated with an organization called Audience Extras that arranges for people to see shows for free, providing a service to a production by filling empty seats. Certainly, I don’t begrudge anyone who wishes to attend my play, I’m grateful, believe me, but there’s a small part of me that feels they’re getting over. I hope I didn’t give any attitude. I get into an argument with an older gentleman over the fact that we don’t have any tickets. Meaning, not that the show is sold out, but we literally don’t have any tickets. He won’t accept this fact, and debates it till his voice starts to rise, satisfied only when I suggest he present his playbill as ticket; though I purposely don’t ask to see it when he enters.

There’s also the matter of comp tickets. It seems Dean, the producer, comps all his relatives, while adamant about friends paying. Lou, an actor, on the other hand, feels all his friends and relatives should be comped. Dean and Lou, who are friends, have gotten into a couple fights over this. Jason, the director, takes a unique approach to getting his guests in free, introducing them all as potential investors. He goes out of his way to introduce them. Presenting them by their full name. Like you should recognize it. “Tom, I’d like you to meet John Doe.” He creates detailed bios, including histories of shows they’ve produced in New York and London, at this theater and that, occasionally dropping in something like, “Dinner with the Nederlanders,” as they stand by silently. When their backs are turned, he gives you a conspiratorial nod, like he’s got a big fish on the hook. No one invested. They weren’t investors. Just for the record, I made all my people pay, with the exception of one good friend, a fellow writer, who’s in the middle of writing a novel, and not working, but came out to support the show. My motivation was partly selfish, in that I wanted to ensure he had money so we could hang out afterward. The most controversial moment involving comp tickets comes when an actor’s mother enters in the company of two other relatives, stopping long enough to introduce me as the playwright, but not to pay. Perhaps I failed as ticket taker, but I didn’t want to embarrass her, or myself. At that point, I wasn’t sure who was supposed to pay. When I tell Dean about this, he gives me a look of disappointment, and launches into a tirade about how, if he ever produces another play, “Fucking every-fucking-one’s fucking paying!” My riposte was to suggest that next time, maybe he should supply tickets.

The take that day is eighty dollars. I count it once the audience is seated. I’m still manning the box-office, in the event of any latecomers, when the lights go down and, from behind the doors, the pre-show music fades. There’s a palpable energy, like that between the lightning and the thunder, before the first lines of dialogue. Head bowed, I listen to the play. When my eyes adjust, I realize I’m not alone. Two of the actors, Lou and Artie, are also in the lobby. Of course, I knew they started the play off-stage. And, of course, I knew they made their entrance via the lobby door. But I’d never known what they did while waiting. Certainly, I never envisioned them in the deserted lobby. But there they are, not really Lou and Artie, more Sykes and Ralph, the characters I’d written, pacing as they await their entrance to the world. I watch as their shadows dance. Then Lou moves into place by the door. He gets his cue and enters. Part of it now. Artie, or, rather, Ralph, paces more vigorously. He’s mumbling. I assume he’s running lines, but as I listen more closely I realize it’s not my dialogue, but Ralph thinking aloud. “I haven’t seen the guys in so long,” he says, in regard to how Ralph has distanced himself from his old friends. “Try to have fun tonight,” he says. Ralph is struggling to overcome the death of his father, and hoping that a weekend with the boys will, at least, provide a respite. Then he says, “He should have been there.” This leaves a lump in my throat. In the play, one of the characters, Phil, who’s somewhat of a pariah, is not told of the funeral, thereby a no-show. I never really considered how Ralph felt about it. Now I knew. Artie gets his cue, and enters. But he’s already given, what is for me, the most memorable performance of the production. To quote Rod Serling, “In a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind.”

Checking my voicemail one day, I discovered a passionate message from Dean saying “Asterisk” was the “best original play I’ve ever auditioned for,” and he was sorry to hear that the production was canceled. Dean had acted in my last play, “Great Kills,” and, coincidentally, auditioned for the second ill-fated production at ATA. I returned his call to say thanks, and see how he was doing, but everything changed when he asked, “What do we have to do to get this play up for three weeks?” Dean was suddenly a first-time producer, and my play was finally on its way to being produced.

“Asterisk” was listed on Offoffonline.com, and NYTheater.com, and several other theater/entertainment websites. We hadn’t sold any tickets, but we weren’t discouraged yet. The Sunday before the play opened, The Post ran a blurb about it in their “The Rumble” section, a weekly Sports page about sports celebrities, above a story on Yogi Berra. This was a major coup for an Off-off Broadway show with a marketing budget that didn’t allow for stamps to mail the postcards we’d printed. Envisioning a sold out run, I asked Dean if he’d checked ticket sales. Not one ticket had been purchased. We’ll do a walk-up business, we told ourselves.

The first week, we played to houses of twenty to twenty-five mostly invited guests and industry. The publicity continued, however, with a feature article on MLB.com, a blurb in the Staten Island Advance’s “Five Spot,” followed by a feature article, and listings in several periodicals. We also received a favorable review in Backstage. The second week, Tuesday’s show had six people in the audience. One fewer than performers on stage. The Mendoza Line for theater. We cancelled Wednesday’s show because no one showed up. Dean pleaded with the cast to man the phones. Attendance picked up, with audiences of twelve, fifteen, and seventeen respectively, on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Sunday’s matinee had three people in the audience. A father and his adult son in the front row, and an older man, sitting fifth row-aisle.

On Monday, our dark day, Dean and I brainstormed. We’d given up on recouping our investment, but we did want to perform in front of people. “Let’s hand out fliers,” I said, facetiously. Dean responded with, “We’ll offer a discount! Half off!” Attracting ten additional audience members to each performance was not only feasible, but would be a success, we reasoned. Whipping each other into a frenzy, we discussed getting the whole cast involved. “They do it for Broadway,” I said. “I mean, they don’t hand out fliers, but they do appearances.” We agreed to meet the next day at four, in front of TKTS.

The official TKTS in Times Square is closed for construction, and an interim one is open at Duffy Square, in the lobby of the Marriott Marquis on West 46th Street. Overflowing onto the sidewalk, the crowd is amorphous. And frustrated. Hotel guests pull bags back and forth. An attendant validates parking. Cars beep when they can’t get through to the garage. Several barkers are lined up at the curb, promoting shows. They don’t say anything. Just hand out postcards. They’re veterans. Hardened. Paid by the hour.

Dean jumps right in, pursuing a couple with his pitch. I watch the parade, trying to think of something to say. As the Venti Iced Americano I picked up at Starbucks on the way kicks in, I step toward a touristy looking couple and call out, “Wanna see a new play about baseball?” They look. I grin. Another touristy couple passes. “Wanna see a new play about baseball? – Ten bucks!” They smile. I smile. A group of tourists approaches. “Wanna see a new play about baseball? Ten bucks! Running through the end of the week.” They laugh. I smile broadly. A businessman walks by. “Wanna see a new play about baseball?” No response. An eccentric-looking New Yorker–toupee unkempt and kind of crooked, reminiscent of the tuft atop Michael Myers’s masked head in “Halloween”–hurries by, and I don’t say anything. I start targeting tourists. My pitch gets more and more elaborate, giving them the “Wanna see a new play about baseball?” line, and ad libbing things like, “Third smash week!” and “Off-off Broadway: The heart of theater!” and “You can say you saw it first!”

Some people ignore you. Some smile. Some respond with, “No,” or “No thanks,” or “I’ve already got plans.” One girl exclaims, “I hate baseball!” Most of the tourists courteously decline, like you’ve invited them to a party that they regretfully can not attend. A few people ask directions. A European man in a soccer jersey listens to my spiel, and then, in very tentative English, says, “This is a play?” “Yes!” I reply, enthusiastically. “There are any baseball matches tonight?” he asks. “The Mets are in town,” I say, and write directions to Shea Stadium on the back of a flier. An elderly couple approaches, and I give them my line, but they explain that they already have tickets to “The Lion King” and “The Color Purple.” They don’t seem in any particular hurry, so I ask them where they’re from. “Minnesota,” they tell me. “First time in New York?” I ask. “We were here forty-seven years ago,” they say. “Try to avoid the trap of going to the same places you went last time,” I quip, and we share a laugh. An affable, middle-aged Australian couple attempts to give me money for tickets on the spot, but I tell them to pay at the box office. Matthew Perry ducks past, and I say, “Wanna see a new play about baseball? – Ten bucks!” I don’t realize it’s Matthew Perry until after I ask – he’s in movie star disguise of baseball cap pulled down low and sunglasses. He just shakes his head.

I get into a conversation with a guy hawking for a show called “Sessions.” He’s wearing khaki shorts and a T-shirt with “Sessions” on it. He asks how my show’s going, and I lament how difficult it is to fill the seats, with the qualification that those who do come seem to really enjoy it. I inquire about his show, and he tells me that the critics panned it, but they’re getting a standing ovation every night. Leaning toward me, in a hushed tone, he says: “The playwright’s a multimillionaire.” All I can do is nod. “His father invented the paper that covers straws.” A group of older ladies dressed for the theater passes, several of them taking his glossy, over-sized postcard, while ignoring my flier.

Dean follows a Midwestern couple toward me, and stops them in their tracks with his hard sell. I listen as he tells them about the play, and details the press we’ve received. “I’m the producer. And star!” he says. I cringe. “That’s the playwright,” I hear, and turn to see the three of them staring at me. It’s at this moment that I have an out of body experience, where I’m soaring over midtown, and swooping down on Duffy Square and the Midwestern couple and Dean and myself. “How long did it take you to write?” the man asks, bringing me back to earth. “About three years.” They look impressed. “And two hundred drafts.” Their faces go blank. “The two hundred and first draft is in here,” I say, and pat the bag slung over my shoulder. They politely decline a flier. Dean says he’s hungry, and we head for pizza.

There are about twenty people in the audience that night. The only faces I recognize from TKTS are the Aussie couple. I’m in my customary seat in the last row, and they’re three rows in front of me. I keep an eye on them throughout the performance to try and read their body language. I’m really hoping they have a good time. I feel personally responsible. After the show, I intercept them in the lobby. They say that they liked it, wish me luck. The woman informs me that her husband played baseball. “I didn’t know they played baseball in Australia,” I say. “Oh, yeah,” he says, proudly. I thank them for coming, and the man smiles at me with, “No worries!”

Located at 69 Bayard Street in Chinatown, there’s a large neon “69″ in the window. Most of the people that I know call the place “69.” Albeit with a grin on their face. But it’s cheap. And the food is great. Best of all, it’s open 24 hours.

You don’t make reservations to go here. In fact, you don’t really make plans. It just kind of happens. The idea pops into your head. You’re in the neighborhood. You get a craving. On this particular night, Karen and I had dinner at Acme, then drinks at Time Cafe, before seeing a late Sonic Youth show at Knitting Factory, and when we emerged from the club, the summer breeze seemed to carry the scent like the wavy lines that lead to food in cartoons, and we followed it up Canal.

When we enter, the dining room is empty, except for the round table in back where employees eat family-style, and the man behind the cash register waves us in, tells us in his broken English to sit anywhere. I’m already seated, menu in hand, as Karen spins around like she just stepped foot in the chocolate room of Willy Wonka’s factory. This is her first time. She’s an actress from Chicago. We met when she auditioned for a one-act that I’d written. I offered her the part on the spot. We’ve been dating for almost six months.

“I’m starving,” I say to get her attention.

“Do you see this?!”

She sits, and we get down to business. I tell her that the beef chow fon is fantastic, and she says, “Let’s get that.” She says that she’s in the mood for sweet and sour chicken, and I say, “That sounds good.”

We start with a couple egg rolls, and share the bowl of duck sauce that’s on the table, engaging in a dipping contest and laughing drunkenly. The beef chow fon comes out next, and Karen takes charge and serves it, even if her hand is about as steady as my grandmother with Parkinson’s and half of it lands on the table. This is enough food for both of us, and by the time the sweet and sour chicken arrives, we’re full and picking more than eating.

Karen’s eyes wander, looking over the notes on the near wall, and she starts reading aloud. “JULLIAN LOVES ANNA.” And “JEN AND ALBERT 4 EVER.” And “BIG ANTHONY + JASMINE.” And “ROTH FROM LONG ISLAND.” And “TKE” on a six dollar block. Inevitably, she asks the question that everyone finally gets around to asking, “How much money do you think is here?” We make a game of counting the vertical rows and multiplying them by the horizontal rows. Then add everything up. The total we arrive at is $4,865. To allow for the occasional five and ten we make it an even $5,000.

Three dollars of that is mine. Singles hung on separate occasions. Memorials to past relationships. “TOM + LAURA,” located two-thirds of the way up on the right hand wall, dates from sometime in 1994. Laura was my first love. The girl that broke my heart. Forever changed the way I relate to women. I was still living on Staten Island at the time. She was from New Jersey. We were on one of our first dates, but I already knew she was the one.

There’s also a “TOM AND LAURA,” higher up on the same wall, from early 1995. Different Laura. Commonly referred to as “Laura #2.” My mother once had a twenty minute phone conversation thinking she was talking to the original Laura, and when she finally realized, made it worse by trying to explain. It was all a terrible coincidence. Or maybe I was trying to recapture the past. Either way, Laura #2 and I only dated a short time. She never really stood a chance.

The third one, simply two names, “TOM” and “CHLOE,” is on the ceiling, summer of ’99. Chloe was a French girl with dreadlocks like a Bo Derek for the new Millennium. A coworker introduced us at a party, and she ended up living with me for the next two months, trading porno sex in exchange for room and board. There was no lease. She stole my Tops baseball card collection and never even said goodbye.

The words, “We should do one,” snap me out of my reverie and I look to see Karen smiling, the corners of her mouth turned up, cheeks blushing, eyes twinkling. I can practically hear the people back home saying that with a smile like hers she should be an actress. Though it’s not rehearsed. It is the innocence of childhood. Mixed with the hope of adolescence. And the sensuality that is woman. But I vowed never to hang another dollar.

“There’s no more room,” I said.

“Yes there is.”

“I don’t know if I have a single.”

“I’ve got one.”

“It’s against the law to deface legal tender.”

“What?”

“Someday they’re gonna bust this place. And track all these people down.”

“Don’t you love me?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but still, it hangs in the air, a crisis in our young relationship. Finally, I raise my hand to call the waiter.