Storytime
I recently boarded the southbound Metro North train to the city – growing up, we never called it New York. If someone did, we knew they came from elsewhere. For years, this ride was routine. But this time was different. It was my first time in more than two years. On the spur of the moment and spurred on by friends in England who had seen it and raved, I snagged one ticket front and center in the mezzanine for The Lehman Trilogy. On Friday afternoon I impulsively hit “complete purchase” on the Telecharge website without thinking about the implications of the still-mid-pandemic trip.
In the best of times, going into the city raises my anxiety level. It just presents too many uncontrollable variables. In the worst of times (a perhaps not raging but still virulent coronavirus), it nearly paralyzed me.
Like a dentist’s shot of Novocain, such situations seem to temporarily numb my sense of science and reality, and I turn instead to story time. And as if I were trying to give my audience (me, in this case) nightmares instead of sweet dreams, I conjure up the direst circumstances that might occur. Most are unlikely, but I suppose this represents some form of very elemental self-defense mechanism. I get stuck in the bottom layer of Maslow’s needs hierarchy triangle and prepare for the worst. What if I need to go to the bathroom on the train/walking to or from the theater/in the theater during the play? What if I’m hungry? Thirsty? What if it’s raining really hard? What if the train is late? What if no one is wearing a mask? What if I hate the play? What if I have a panic attack during the play? And on and on… I exhaust myself before I’ve even left the house.
And prepare. I mean Boy Scout level of preparedness. I drank minimally before catching a train much earlier than necessary and headed right to the long line waiting to get into the ladies’ room at both Grand Central and the Nederlander Theater before sitting down. I didn’t drink anything else for the duration (dehydration was clearly not on my threat list). I didn’t want my normally suitcase-sized satchel to weigh me down, so I packed a city purse to facilitate aerodynamic city grid navigation. Two Kind bars, my phone, lip gloss (why?), earphones (so I wouldn’t have to listen to anyone on the train), ID, credit and vaccination cards, and Ray Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man for next month’s book group meeting populated my lightweight bag. I travelled light so I could move fast.
How did reality compare with fantasy? The train hit a snag on the way in, in the form of a closed bridge track, so we backed up for miles to switch tracks, which stretched the advertised 74-minute journey to two hours. Most, but not all, passengers and audience members wore masks (I donned two), albeit some in the immensely confusing and confounding over-the-mouth-but-below-the-nose style. Dutiful teams of young, yellow windbreaker clad Covid Squad employees checked our vaccine proof and photo IDs as we prepared to enter the theatre, but I could have shown them my library card and they’d have waved me through. I sat shoulder to shoulder for three and one quarter hours with complete strangers for the duration of this marvel of theatrical magic, with nary a need for one bathroom break. And, as you already know, lived to tell the story.
Showtime
The tour de force, featuring a spectacular set meant to represent a lofty skyscraper office with an ever-changing backdrop, featured three supremely talented actors: Simon Russell Beale, Adrian Lester, and Adam Godley. They told the Lehman brothers’ stories, embodying a variety of characters and spanning decades. Their rise and fall represented the important role that storytelling plays in our lives: the immigrants’ stories, the brothers/husbands/fathers’ stories, the ambitious business partners’ stories. And how those stories changed with time and over generations: coming to the new world to make a better life, pivoting with and adapting to the times, and perhaps the biggest and most impactful story of all: the consequences of chasing the all-American dream of more… always more.
Return Journey
After the production, I trotted back to Grand Central, where I treated myself at Zabar’s to a hot pretzel (my blood sugar was threateningly low at this point) and a Diet Coke (to slake my thirst and quell the growing migraine brought on by my hunched shoulders which conveniently stored all my stress). I ran because I wanted to minimize station waiting time.
Happy Ending?
Tales are, to paraphrase Belle from Beauty and the Beast, are as old as time. “We use stories to make sense of our world and share that understanding with others.” Stories convey history. They pass traditions along. They spread important information. And they help us to understand universal truths about ourselves and those around us. We can still see the stories the cave dwellers in Lascaux and Chavaux drew 30,000 years ago. Homer (or some collective called Homer) told the tales of the mighty Greek epics. Troubadours sang stories because they were easier to remember, and evoked deep emotions.
We have never stopped telling stories, nor should we, but it might behoove us to examine the stories we tell. Writ large, stories made up of “alternate facts” or conspiracy theories can hurt us individually and as a society. On a more personal level, stories can inflict unnecessary stress and strain. As Mark Twain said, “I’ve had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened.”
Before I moved to merry olde England at the merry olde age of 58 to study Shakespeare, I told myself bone-chilling stories of all the disasters that might befall me. Interestingly, I never told myself a story about how it could be one of the best years of my life. No doubt we focus on the worst stories as survival imperative – we need to be more prepared for the Wicked Witch of the West than Glenda the Good Witch. And it would be Pollyanna-ish of me to pretend that all stories end happily. But as Dev Patel as Sonny Kapoor so wisely said in The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, “everything will be alright in the end, and if it’s not alright, it’s not the end.” In cooking up our stories, perhaps we need to add a pinch of skepticism or a scattering of fear, but also a healthy dose of sunny optimism and confidence.
None of my worst fears materialized on my return to the city. Yes, the train was delayed, but I’d left ample time. I managed not to have to use the dreaded train bathroom at all. The migraine (self-inflicted) persisted into the next few days but eventually waned and disappeared. I had a seismic theatrical experience thanks to a superlative cast and spectacular set. My sister and BFF both asked: “Was it worth it?” I didn’t hesitate, “Yes, absolutely.”