We prayed that one of Jeffrey’s dates would turn out well, because we couldn’t take much more. Then one afternoon, Jeff called and said, “I’m in love. I’m really in love.” Finally, he had met the woman of his dreams. Diana owned an art gallery, and was not only beautiful, but also cultured and well educated. He had even introduced her to his mother, so we knew this was serious.
“So when do we get to meet her?” W.S. asked. “As soon as she gets back from Paris,” Jeff said. “But, in the meantime, Diana’s roommate, Cassandra is going to be in a play, and I promised I would go. I have tickets for Saturday night, and you both are going with me.” “Cassandra is an actress?” W.S. asked. “Yeah,” Jeff replied. “When she’s not waiting tables.”
As W.S. hung up the phone, I asked, ”What’s the name of the play?” “I forgot to ask,” he replied. Saturday night, we were ready at the appointed time, but Jeffrey was late, as usual. “What’s the name of the play?” I asked, as we got into his car. “BURNT TOAST,” he replied. “I think it’s one of those avant garde kind of plays. “Do we have to go?” W.S. mumbled, but no one answered. We were already 15 minutes late, but Jeff assured us that we’d be at the theatre soon.
After driving around for another 20 minutes, we cruised down an alley and found a garage tucked between two very old buildings. “This is it,” said Jeff. “Told you I’d get us here on time.” “Jeffrey,” I said. “We are 35 minutes late.” “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll just sneak in and no one will notice.”
There was a door at the side and W.S. opened it as quietly as possible. The theatre was pitch black, and we could barely make out the folding chairs that were situated in front of the section of the floor that was supposed to be a stage. After our eyes adjusted, we could see that the only empty chairs were in the middle of the third row. There were only three rows of chairs set up, but they were long rows.
So the three of us ventured forth, whispering, “Excuse me.” Then kicking a folding chair. “Excuse me,” kicking another chair, and another chair and another chair. Meanwhile, on stage, an actor cried out, “You have turned my life into crumbs. Why don’t you just flush me down your disposal?” “We must have missed something,” I whispered to Jeffrey. “Shh,” he said. “Here comes Cassandra.
“My God!” said W.S. “She’s a bagel!” Sure enough, Cassandra was dressed like a bagel. “I can’t stand this,” I said. “She’s going to say, ’There’s a hole in my gut.’” I was wrong. With great fervor, Cassandra wept, “There’s a hole in my heart.” “Missed it by that much,” said W.S.
BURNT TOAST was obviously not on its way to Broadway. The one spotlight went out. Everyone clapped, and obviously the play was over. But the theatre remained pitch black. As we got up to leave, we groped our way out, “Excuse me,” and kicked chairs. “Excuse me,” “Ouch!” As we almost made it to the end of the row, the spotlight came up again. The play was obviously going to resume, and W.S. kicked over a chair, which landed with a clatter and a thud---and we ran! We ran out of that garage all the way to the end of the alley and all the way to the car.
“Do you think anyone noticed?” I asked. “Nah!” said W.S. Jeff wasn’t so sure that Cassandra would forgive us, but he knew that Diana might, if he married her. So he did.
A year later, on their first anniversary, we were vacationing in California. W.S. took advantage of the three-hour time difference to call way past midnight and say, “Hi there, Jeff! Did I wake you up? Sorry about that. We just wanted to know what in the hell you two married folks are doing up at this hour?”
Esther Blumenfeld
CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006