"In with the new, out with the old" sounds like the proverbial new year's toast, but not for my mother. Upon meeting Jamie for the first time, introductions were barely over when these very words came out of her mouth, only in reference to how I played women like lottery tickets. "He leaves 'em all sick. Out with the old. In with the new."" she said and quickly segued into "The only reason Jewish boys like gentile girls is for the sex." Jamie replied with a straight-face, "I know that's important to Stephen, Elizabeth." Right then and there I knew I had a winner. Why am I thinking about this now? I don't know why I'm thinking about this now. No clue. It came into my mind as I sat down. It is New Years'Eve after all. And that's the way it works, anyway.
I've been an octogenarian for a week now, and I'm down, we be cool, I got stuff to do. It must be said that these days have been just about my best so far. I don't feel any worse than I did at seventy-nine, and, except for a few aches & pains, I felt pretty good then. Mostly, I'm anxious for the holidays to be over so I can get back to a regular work schedule. I've had no plans to write another novel (Three's enough and who needs the hassle?), but New Year's eve, without forethought or planning, out came eight pages. I was just sitting there staring into the fire thinking how different this was from all the other NY's Eves we've celebrated. How quiet. No earth-shaking thoughts. No epiphanies. Just mulling things over when, all of a sudden, my computer jumped into my lap and began giving me instructions. My fingers hopped around the keyboard on their own like Mexican jumping beans. Eight pages later I fell asleep.
Back in 1968 I made my living as a stage manager. I remember looking around my first year at Yale wondering how all the playwrights who graduated were making a living. Mostly, I discovered, they weren't. Now, I'd had no theater experience whatsoever except that I'd had this play produced. My room-mate at the time was a director who was about to turn down an assistant stage manager gig at the Cape Cod Melody Tent in Hyannis. As I ran down the stairs I yelled, "Hey, Rog, tell 'em I'll take it." He did. They called me. I went to NYC for an interview. Had I acted? Of course. What? Howard in Picnic, Greek chorus. Directed? Of course. What? The Sandbox. No Exit. However, really, of course, I'd done nothing at all. I lied. Apparently, they didn't see through me because I was hired. Two weeks into the season I was nearly fired because I didn't know what the hell I was doing, so I dug in and learned, and, by season's end, I had my equity card and a way to make a living. Cut. Dissolve. A couple of years later I was Edward Albee's stage manager for the premiere of a new play at the the Festival of Two Worlds in Spoleto, Italy, directed by Alan Schneider.. Pretty nifty gig. For a month I was around GianCarlo Menotti, Stephen Spender, Buckminster Fuller, Michael Cacoyannis, John Cazale, Irene Pappas doing an imitation of Danny Kaye begging her to have sex with him, Edward Albee, Israel Horowitz, a young Al Pacino...Others I can't remember, but I do remember the famous sculptors, Henry Moore and Isamu Noguchi. All this glamour and fame, but what they wanted most was to go home and back to work in their studios. They wanted out of there. I heard them say it. Back to work. I sort of understood it then, but I really understand it now, especially now, since, no matter how optimistic a guy is, time is limited, and I have another book to write. Jim Harrison, a favorite of mine, died with his pencil in his hand and a sheet of paper on his desk with an incomplete sentence. Sounds just about right.
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