A Word From the Weiss

        Do you believe in magic? Can’t say that I do. When it comes to miracles, love at first sight, and those chance meetings that seem to be beshert (Yiddish for “meant to be”), I’m a total sucker. But beyond that, like most Jews, I tend to question everything… along with answering most questions with a question. As for magic, mind-reading, and all those crazy stunts that mentalists perform, I struggle valiantly to suspend my disbelief. The skeptic in me assumes there’s got to be gimmick, and I just don’t know what it is.
        So when my husband insisted on buying two tickets recently to a high-brow, 70-minute magic show called Nothing to Hide, well, let’s just say that I was a little peeved.
        Never mind that this off-Broadway production, directed by Neil Patrick Harris of Doogie Howser and How I Met Your Mother fame, had been reviewed to near universal acclaim. Nor that it consisted of two gifted young magicians doing astonishing card tricks, rather than some mustachioed fellow sawing his assistant in two, then pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Those two seats set us back a whopping $164, including the hefty handling fees, to which we’d have to add a hotel room and dinner out in NYC. And I figured that if we were going to travel five hours roundtrip and spend that kind of dough, we should see something I wanted to see, too. That is, something a little more profound.
        Unfortunately, given my customary candor, I didn’t exactly try to stifle my lack of enthusiasm. On the contrary, I expressed it openly. More than once. And by the second or third time I kvetched about these plans, my husband decided not to hold back either. He said that if I didn’t want to go, then he would invite our daughter to join him instead.
        And he did.
        This in and of itself would’ve been perfectly fine, I suppose. There’s nothing wrong with spouses spending an occasional evening apart. (I already tend to leave the room when he watches anything violent and bloody on TV.) And God knows that I’ve enjoyed more than my share of overnights in NYC hanging out with our daughter, Allegra. It would be nice for the two of them to experience a little father-daughter alone time too.
        Yet I must admit that I had problems with this arrangement. These were two-fold.
        First, I think that Allegra, who is about to turn 24, should spend Saturday nights out with friends of her own vintage, rather than her folks, whom she sees too often already.
        And second, we have been down this road before. The last time that we bought her a theater ticket, she got invited to a party and canceled out on us at the very last minute (although given her age, who could honestly blame her?).
        I hoped for her sake that she would get a better offer again, and if so I wanted to give her the flexibility to accept it. But God forbid that we let an $82 ticket go to waste. So rather than planning to see another play that night, I decided to play wait and see.
        Luckily, we soon learned that our good friends Jake and Doreen would be in the city from Minneapolis that same weekend to attend an event, and we arranged to join them for brunch earlier that day along with our mutual close friends Rafi and Lois.
        They needed to meet up in Tribeca, and not having been down there in a gazillion years, I suggested we rendezvous at the only place I could find with a familiar name (and a Jewish one at that): Kutsher’s Tribeca, a hip yet kitschsy Jewish-food emporium co-owned by a fourth-generation member of the family who ran Kutsher’s Country Club, the iconic Borscht Belt resort.
        This place was reputed to have the best pastrami sandwich in all of New York City. And despite my recent vows to eat mostly vegetarian, as NiceJewishMom.com I felt no less than a moral obligation to investigate this claim myself.
        The verdict? All it took was about two bites of their hearty, moist meat piled high on rye with a golden shmeer of mustard, and I found myself presenting co-owner Josh Kutsher, who was on hand, with an official NiceJewishMom.com Spiel of Approval.
        We spent the remains of the afternoon with our friends taking an epic walk uptown. And by the time that we had parted, it was already time to meet Allegra for dinner.
        By now it had become clear that no conflicting plans would materialize for her. Clocking in at only an hour and 10 minutes, the 8:00 performance would end in plenty of time for her to catch up with friends afterwards and hang out for the rest of the night.
        So as we headed off on the subway to collect the tickets, I realized that I would be totally on my own after we ate. I considered still trying to seek some tickets of my own. But to what? And where? The Pershing Square Signature Center, where Nothing to Hide was playing, is situated so far west on 42nd Street that it was practically in a world of its own. And although there were movie theaters on nearby blocks, the magic show was so brief that it would be over long before any film that I chose to see might end.
        It also had grown so cold and blustery outside that by the time we’d arrived it had begun snowing lightly, and we were reluctant to venture back out again, even to eat. Luckily, the vast Signature Center, designed by Frank Gehry, has a nice café upstairs.
        We quickly texted Allegra saying to meet us there. Then I approached the box office to explore if I might have any remaining options right on the premises.
        By the time my husband had purchased his tickets, weeks earlier, the magic show had already been sold out, with the exception of one remaining seat right beside theirs. He urged me to inquire if this were still available, as unlikely as that might be. It was not.
        Yet one of the two young women behind the ticket counter said that it was possible that the director might release a few house seats just before show time. These would go for premium pricing, though, a rate that she estimated to be around $150 apiece. Having balked at paying $82, I surely wasn’t about to cough up anything like that.
        She nodded sympathetically, and then noted that there were two other plays running simultaneously inside the theater complex. Both of these were also sold out. I was welcome to add my name to the waiting list for either of them, however, or both.
        The good news was that since they were both still in previews, tickets ran only $25. The bad news was that they wouldn’t begin taking names for the waitlists until 7 p.m., and tickets would then only become available shortly before the performances began. By that point, it would be way too late for me to find any alternative activity.
        I had no clue what either of these shows was about, but figured I would try for both.
        Allegra finally arrived shortly after this, and we found ourselves a table in the now-bustling café, which features live music, and went up to the bar to order some food.
        She had just come from a hot yoga class, meaning one held in a sweltering room so that while you stretch and strike various poses, you also shvitz (sweat) like mad. She recently had registered for a month of these via Groupon, and had been enjoying them immensely… until that afternoon. The woman teaching this particular session was such a tyrant that she had singled my daughter out for stern public criticism more than once.
        At one point, Allegra had reached for a small towel that she had brought with her and begun swabbing her dripping brow. “We do not use towels here!” cried the woman, who had a thick foreign accent. “We are here to sweat! We do not wipe off the sweat!”
        At another point, she chastised Allegra contemptuously for not having perfect form. “We keep our legs together in this class!” she barked, noticing Allegra’s ankles askew.
        Was she kidding? Ohmmm my God!
        “Who the heck did this girl think she was?” I squealed. “Some sort of yoga Nazi?” Yoga was supposed to be calming and rejuvenating, I said, not like boot camp.
        Somehow, I got so caught up in righteous indignation that I didn’t notice when 7:00 came and went. By the time I had raced downstairs, it was already 5 past, and I was now No. 3 or 4 on the waiting list for both of the other shows. My prospects looked grim.
        But to be honest, I didn’t really want to see either of them anyway. I’d now begun to sorely regret having maligned my husband’s choice of entertainment. I wanted to stay with my family and had begun hoping for a reprieve. Might some fool fail to show up for a show for which he’d shelled out upwards of 80 bucks, so that I could get his seat?
        That probably would take a minor miracle. But I believed in miracles. Didn’t I?
        I went back downstairs to the original ticket window and told the young woman there my plight. One of her bosses was now beside her, and hearing my tale of woe about summarily being cut loose by my husband on a Saturday night, this woman erupted with righteous indignation of her own. (Yes, I glossed over the part about my having dissed the show.) If there were a no-show for the event, then the spare ticket would automatically be mine.
        And no, I would not have to pay that exorbitant premium rate.
        So I went back upstairs, finished eating, and was treated to more tales of the yoga Nazi. Meanwhile, I texted Sam Parrott, the son of our good friends Sally and Dial. He’s a gifted young actor whose day job happens to be working in the Signature Theatre box office. I asked him which of the other two plays he might recommend, and he assured me that both were excellent. Yet he most heartily endorsed the one entitled How I Learned What I Learned, a one-man show about the life of playwright August Wilson.
        I was embarrassed to admit this, but as avid a theater buff as I may be, I somehow had never managed to see even a single play by the late prolific, acclaimed writer, who won Pulitzers for Fences in 1986 and The Piano Lesson in 1990 and was celebrated for his many other works, including Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, Seven Guitars, and Two Trains Running.
        Given that, how much was seeing the story of his life likely to resonate with me?
        I’d have to make up my mind about that pronto, because it was time to run back downstairs. They were working their way down those lists, and soon I heard my name.
        Did I want a ticket to the Wilson play or not? It could be mine for only 25 bucks. Before whipping out my credit card, I decided to make one last-ditch effort. Hastily approaching the other window, I asked what I should do. Was there any real chance of my getting into the magic show, for which I was now prepared to pay almost anything?
        The girl bit her lip apologetically and admitted that if there were any prospect at this point, it was one in a million. And unlike Lloyd Christmas, the Jim Carrey character in Dumb and Dumber who’s told by his lovely love interest, Lauren Holly, that the chances of her dating him are one out of a million, I didn’t respond euphorically, “So you’re telling me there’s a chance!”
        Instead, I returned to the other window and surrendered my Visa… but only after the first girl swore that if a miracle actually did occur, she would come up and find me.
        My heart sank when I returned to my family upstairs, then noticed that the ticket I had just purchased appeared to be defective. That is, it was for that afternoon’s matinee performance. And indeed when I went into the theater, someone was sitting in my seat.
        Yikes!
        On the one hand, this gave me an excuse to go back to the box office again. Perhaps something had opened up at the very last minute, or they would manage some incredible real-life sleight of hand and find a way to fit me in there somehow.
        On the other hand, maybe I would end up empty-handed and out of luck, after all.
        As it turned out, neither thing happened. The clerk lit up when she saw me and said she’d realized her mistake the moment I’d left. The good news was that they did have a seat for me for the Wilson play, even closer than the first. But I would still be on my own.
        I found my spot and soon watched actor Ruben Santiago-Hudson take the stage in this one-man production, an episodic monologue that serves as a candid and moving coming-of-age story. And from the very first line, I found myself completely enthralled.
        “My ancestors have been in America since the early 17th century,” he began, “and for the first 244 years, we never had a problem finding a job.” Then, after pausing for the ripples of appreciative laughter erupting from the mostly white audience, he continued.
        “But since 1863, it’s been hell… hell because the ideas and attitudes that Americans had toward slaves followed them out of slavery and became entrenched in the nation’s psyche.”
        What followed was an hour and 20 minutes of personal philosophy and anecdotes about what it was like to grow up in mid-20th-century America black and poor, yet full of promise and pride. Amiably embodying Wilson, whom he evidently knew well – he starred in or directed several of his plays – Santiago-Hudson revealed the innumerable roadblocks that he’d stumbled into in his native Pittsburgh, all related to overt racism.
        Although Wilson dropped out of school at age 15, he did not “drop out of life,” he said. He managed to educate himself by practically taking up residence in the library. But quitting remained a consistent pattern as he walked away from job after entry-level job in the demeaning face of blatant bigotry.
        Typical was the time that he was hired to work in a toy store stockroom, only to be cautioned by his boss not to steal anything, making him storm off before he even began. Then there was the lawn service job he exited post-haste after his boss failed to stand up for him to a wealthy white woman who didn’t want a black man cutting her grass.
        Even after his early theatrical successes began, the racial affronts failed to cease. Such was the case when he went to cash a sizable check for the first play he ever sold to the Mark Taper Forum in L.A., and the bank teller eyed him suspiciously, then refused to put his money in an envelope, claiming they had no envelopes at that bank.
        Yet instead of losing his cool, Wilson apparently laughed all the way from the bank, marveling at the audacity of someone who would be “willing to put a mark on her soul for an envelope.” His conclusion: “She goin’ to hell!”
        Through such personal anecdotes, the play and the irascible man behind it sprang vividly to life, aided and abetted by the inventive albeit rather spare set. This featured countless white slips of paper suspended from the ceiling, allowing key names or phrases to light up as if being tapped out on a typewriter as a preface to each scene.
        “Coltrane,” for example, was the illuminated message when he began to reminisce about getting to hear that incomparable giant of jazz play live one memorable night, poignantly demonstrating the value of art and “the power and possibility of human life.”
        Then there was “Snookie,” not the pint-sized, shrill harpy from Jersey Shore, but a nubile siren with whom he had his first real romance, until her estranged husband appeared to reclaim her affections in a bar one night at the firing end of a gun.
        But as Nice Jewish Mom, I must confess that my favorite parts may have been when he waxed prosaic about the stalwart, pride-engendering single mother who raised him – the woman who once won a new washing machine in a contest, then refused to accept the used model they tried to foist on her when they learned that she was black.
        “Those of you whose mothers are still alive, I don’t envy you,” he observed toward the end, “because one of these days you’re gonna have to face the most profound grief. All these years, you been livin’ on your mother’s prayers, and now you gonna have to live on your own.”
        Amen.
        If I had any problems with the production, they were once again two-fold: I now felt compelled to see everything August Wilson had ever written. And I wanted my husband to see this incredible play as well, meaning I’d soon be solo for yet another night.
        After leaping to my feet at the end, along with most of the other people present, I hastened to find my family, who were already out of their show and waiting in the lobby.
        “So, how was it?” I asked, still beaming with sheer delight.
        “Good,” my normally effusive daughter responded curtly with a shrug. Talk about damning with faint praise! I couldn’t tell if she was genuinely unimpressed or was merely hesitant to rave about it and make me feel bad for having missed it. I decided not to ask.
        My husband, however, didn’t hold back. Never mind that their seats had been up in the mezzanine, making it challenging to see the action, most of which involved intricate card tricks. He spent the rest of the evening and much of the following days trying to describe the “mind-reading” wizardry he’d seen, none of which I could begin to follow.
        In the end, I realized that I actually do believe in one small miracle – the way that things rarely work out the way that we want them to, but often the way that they should.
        My husband was right to ditch me for that show, because I was almost guaranteed to have been a total wet blanket. This way, he got to revel in every magical minute of it, instead of worrying that I was bored or unimpressed or would later scoff, “I told you so!”
        Meanwhile, I was practically cornered into seeing something that I never would have chosen on my own, but which turned out to be both amazing and, yes, profound.
        Maybe other couples do better than we do about venturing out on their own to pursue their own passions and inclinations. But marriage tends to militate against that.
        Fortunately, Nice Jewish Dad and I happen to have quite a few interests in common. But after 30 years together, I barely remember what my own musical tastes once were. My husband and kids are such jazz fanatics that I rarely get to hear anything else.
        There are countless good movies I’ve never seen, not for lack of desire but because my husband evinced no interest. Then there are all the places to which I’ve never been because my spouse, who’s a decade older than I am, visited them long ago.
        I’m not advocating for separate vacations. But maybe at this stage in our lives, when my husband has begun going to the office less and we’re together a whole lot more, it’s time to start giving each other some space and seeking a little more autonomy.
        He can have his violent TV and magic shows. I can have my Zumba classes, yoga (preferably at room temperature, thanks), and whatever else I find compelling or profound. And maybe if we cut each other a little more slack, we’ll even begin to get some of that good old magic back.