It was time for an intermission at the theater. Cocktails were being served and the audience eagerly filed out to the lobby. This particular crowd had been gathering for these performances for years and always looked forward to the cocktail parties at intermission.
New members had joined and some old timers had set off on new adventures, but sooner or later they would return. When they did return they knew just where to go, which was nowhere in particular, and always during a full moon.
The theater lobby was in a huge space defined by columns, statues, windows and doors, curtains and decorative whatnots, architectural details that ranged from primitive stone to Romanesque to Victorian to wide-open plains with a dust cloud kicked up by a thundering herd of horses silhouetted in the distance, to ancient towering trees, dramatic mountains, waterfalls and all varieties of lush plants dotted with colorful birds darting about and squawking in the moonlight. In other words, it looked exactly like what each member thought it should look like. The only thing everyone agreed on was that there was a marquis.
People chatted away, drinking, smoking, laughing, standing around, leaning, sitting in various groups, congregating around diverse points of architectural interest. There was a larger than normal moon, but this only seemed to serve as a set piece. The lighting emanated from the party guests themselves. Different souls occasionally wandered in and the scene would brighten. Some would drift over to another group and the light of the first group would dull down a bit, while other souls, whose features were indistinct because they merely observed and never uttered a peep seem to fade into the background. If you looked hard enough, you would see thousands of faces in the background.
In the general hubbub, one particularly well-lit group gathered near what looked like a marble staircase where a booming voice rose above the general hubbub. The speaker, raised up a step, was a huge man with a practiced, incharge air. He has a flowing white beard, long hair and a bejeweled blue cape over an ermine coat. One elbow was propped up on a white marble banister, and some sort of golden headpiece was tucked under his other arm. Several dogs of various shapes and sizes sat at attention statue-like or lay by his side, but with ears on alert as if awaiting orders. One diminutive black pup turned in circles, pawing, then made a nest for itself under the man’s long cape.
The speaker was addressing an old woman in the group, improbably dressed in a floor-length black pinafore and a tidy white apron, typical of an 1850’s American pioneer. A stiff white bonnet partially hid the little crinkly old face of Grandma Harriet.
“Oh yes, I know, it’s going to get boring after a while,” chuckled the speaker, with a distinct but strangely German French accent.
“Well, no it isn’t, as you well know sir. Anyway, give the girl some peace for a few minutes, will you? This is intermission and it’s early. She’s probably asleep right now. Leave her be.”
Her voice was quite strong and commanding for such a small woman, behaving as if she was on equal terms with the regal fellow. “Peace? Leave her be? She’ll be back here again before you know it! Well, at least she knows we’re here. Besides, this is the review we’re supposed to be doing. Anyway, she’s not asleep. She’s right here…”
The kingly man, Claude, closed one eye. With his hand, thumb and forefinger pinched together, he moved it along the horizon until he found a certain spot, then opening his f ingers and wiping the air as if clearing a windshield of fog, a miniature tableau of Ruth, age 22, appeared like a small hologram suspended in midair.
Ruth’s hair was pulled back into a long braid and she had a red glove in her mouth. Dwarfed by a large steering wheel, she was driving an empty school bus, while wiping her windshield of fog with the other red glove. Bare trees blurred by in the morning light as the big yellow bus barreled down a long hill. On an equal height with large trucks, the young driver didn’t seem to mind intimidating cars with a blare of her horn. The invisible audience felt a little uplift from her sense of youthful freedom.
Her job as a school bus driver left young Ruthie time to sketch, practice Kung Fu and listen to her husband’s rock band rehearse in the basement and her thoughts were on that agenda. Driving a school bus also left this young woman underpaid and out of synch with the young women of her kind on a college-educated path who took liberal arts classes and had acceptable boyfriends. At the time she rationalized she was on an adventure of discovery in a realer, more honest world.
The gray January sky released a few large raindrops that became a steady, depressing downpour. Ruth adjusted the rudimentary heater at her side, flipping on the gigantic windshield wipers which provided percussion as she belted out new lyrics to the tune of “Love is the Answer” as she drove to her first run of the day.
She loved that song, but life with a purist never-sell-out musician made liking certain tunes forbidden, including all pop music. But in the privacy of her bus, and much to the delight of her well-disposed invisible observers, she was free to let ’er rip within her rolling amplifier and she sang well and loud:
“Light of the world, Shine on me Love is the answer! Shine on us all Set us free Love is the answer…”
The windshield fogged over the little tableau and several members of the cocktail party group let out a giggle, a sigh, or a tsk, a nod or a smirk.
“So sweet. See? She sings to us. And as for privacy — poppycock! She shows off to us, eh? She’s calling us in!”
The lights flicked off and on a few times. The intermission was over and the audience began filing into their seats again.
“I’m leaving. I know what happens next and do not particularly want to watch it.” Harriet declared over her shoulder. “Besides, I have an appointment to keep.”
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I have a yahrzheit candle all ready. I’m supposed to wait until sunset to light it. The exact moment that the event actually happened...
