September 2, 2011: A Tiny Moment

09-02-11

As I sit down to write this reflection for the blog-o-sphere, I realize August has passed me by.  When last we left our fearless adventurer Jenny, she was getting ready to open her play, Much Ado About Nothing, while dodging amorous park exhibitionists and late-night sprinklers.  Now, I'm heading into our closing weekend, having braved a plethora of unexpected events.  There was the Maryhill windstorm that required all off-stage cast members to hold onto our tent to keep it from taking flight.  During this adventure, our Benedick (who is also our set designer) perceived the need to let some of the air out of the tent and, since we were getting a new tent the next weekend, decided to cut an air escape route in the roof.  After hunting around for scissors or a knife, he plucked the dagger from Don Pedro's costume and valiantly stabbed a hole in the roof just as Beatrice declared onstage: "and Benedick, love on, I will requite thee!"  There was our 96-degree performance (hot for this Portland summer) in a venue where our stage was in the sun.  When offstage, we would suck water, put ice down our shirts, and fling ourselves to the ground, unable to support our own weight a second longer than was necessary.  Our set, that day, agreed with our response to the suffocating heat, as one of our side arches buckled and collapsed under its own weight at the beginning of our second act, just as Borachio asks "Dost thou hear someone?" to which, that day, Conrade replied "no, tis just this arch falling over."  We've had our share of interesting audience members, too: there was a woman who brought her spinning wheel and spent the whole play spinning straw into gold (half of that is true . . .); there was a homeless man who Dogberry nearly convinced, during our pre-show, to become a member of the watch; there were three separate groups of people who came dressed in full period outfits -- corsets, top hats, walking sticks and all. 

But truly, I wanted to write about something else today: a tiny experience that snapped me to attention for a moment of clarity and leaves me, weeks later, wondering at its significance. 

I was called to be an extra on the final episode of the current season of Leverage.  For those of you who don't know, Leverage is a TNT show filmed in Portland, about -- well, I'm not really sure.  I know it involves good guys and bad guys.  This particular episode featured a room full of business executives at a cocktail party (i.e. 250 Portland actors and other under-employed people who owned business-wear and could be available for 14 hours on a Monday with less than 24 hours' notice). 

This was my fourth time ever being an extra, and although I don't intend to make a habit of it, I do find it interesting and useful to be on a set, watching the way filming gets done.  About 10 hours into our day, I realized there were some famous actors in the room with me.  In my defense, I had spent the first 6 hours of my day in an extras holding area, waiting to be called to do something.  When I was called into the scene, I moved into the room along with all 250 of the other party-goers, listening attentively to the Extras Wrangler who served as interpreter between the director and the somewhat unwieldy mob of restless extras.  My attentiveness earned me some highlight moves as the Extras Wrangler caught my eye: "You!  Walk over here as the camera rolls by!"  I hope it isn't my ten minutes of fame, but having a task kept me mildly entertained as the same scene was shot over and over. 

But the "significant moment" happened, as I said, about 10 hours into the shoot when I realized there were some famous actors in the room with me.  Specifically, I recognized Leon Rippy (although I had to look up his name when I got home), the actor who played David's creepy southern lawyer in The Life of David Gale.  That movie is one of a very few that actually took my breath away.  I won't spoil the ending if you haven't seen it, but it twists to reveal a truth that, when I witnessed it, was almost more than I could fathom.  I saw it twice by myself in the theater and again with Steve when we were first dating. 

So when I saw Leon Rippy (i.e., "the actor who played the creepy lawyer in that movie that changed my life"), I was star-struck in a way I hadn't anticipated.  I wanted to watch him act, but my position in the room wouldn't allow me to hear the dialog, and it was difficult to keep my eye on him without drawing the attention of the Extras Wrangler for not appearing natural.  (Extras Wrangler: "I don't think party guest number 147 should be craning her neck like that."  Me: "No, it's this yoga thing I'm working on.  It's part of my character."  Extras Wrangler: "There's no yoga in this scene.  Face forward, drink your soda-water champagne, and laugh like you're having a good time.")

Presently, we were starting a new scene and all the extras were being herded to one side of the room while the principal actors moved to the other side.  I was roughly in the middle of the throng, at the edge of the corridor being created for the actors to move between us.  Trying not to step on anyone's toes, I suddenly looked up and found myself face to face with Leon Rippy, the-actor-who-played-the-creepy-lawyer-in-that-movie-that-changed-my-life!  Inexplicably, he stopped, offered me his hand, and asked my name.  "Jenny," I said, grinning like an idiot.  "It's nice to meet you, Jenny.  I'm Leon," he said, and winked at me.  Then he moved on through the mob of extras and crew. 

As he moved away from me, tears came to my eyes.  I looked across the parted sea of extras at a guy I didn't know and whispered "he shook my hand!"  The guy whispered "who is that?"  I shook my head and watched Leon disappear into the crowd. 

That’s Leon Rippy, the-actor-who-winked-at-me-on-a-TV-shoot-once. 

July 31, 2011: Much Ado About... Sprinklers, Darkness, and Lovemaking

07-31-11

I’ve had the pleasure of rehearsing Much Ado About Nothing for the last 4 weeks.  It’s been a pleasure for many reasons: I’m playing a villain, which is something I’ve never done before and may never get to do again; I’m vocal coaching the show, which is a new and challenging experience; and I’m working with a group of talented, dedicated, pleasant-spirited people.

As Portland’s Shakespeare in the Parks company, we play in a different park each weekend, but we’ve been rehearsing for the last week in the park where we opened this weekend.  Our playing space is at the bottom of a large staircase, which means we get to haul our set, costumes, and tent down and back up the stairs each day.  Although this is not an ideal situation, it’s actually not a big deal either, because everyone is so gracious about it.  We don’t complain about what a pain it is; instead, we make jokes about getting in shape.  We help each other out, everybody pitches in, and nobody leaves until everything is done.  These are not rules that had to be either named or enforced – it’s just what has happened since the beginning of tech week, and I’m proud to be part of such a generous group of people.

Despite our laudable work ethic, there were a few wrinkles in the week.  Monday was our first rehearsal in the park and our first time loading everything in, and we got started a little late.  Although we had gotten to the park at 6pm, we didn’t finish our run until about 9:30, by which time it was pitch black, and the park has very little lighting.  Our director decided it was unsafe for us to try to load out in the dark, so we waited for the producer to bring flashlights and lanterns.  We were maybe halfway done with the tear-down when the park sprinklers came on about 50 feet away from us on both sides.  This caused a bit of a panic, and we cleared the area with as much speed as is possible while carrying heavy equipment up stairs in the dark.  The sprinklers in our area came on as if on cue just as we moved the last items out of the way.

Our final dress rehearsal was Thursday night, and we were entertained by an amorous couple on the hillside no more than 20 feet from stage and in direct view of the people waiting backstage.  They were engaged in what can only be described as “heavy petting” lasting through most of Act I and Intermission.  When I came offstage after my first scene in Act II, I rounded the corner of the viewing area just in time to see the girl TAKE OFF HER SHORTS and… well, perhaps I’ve said too much already.  Their boldness made my jaw drop, and I wondered why they hadn’t chosen a more secluded area to consummate their evening.  They were on a hillside surrounded by well-trimmed grass and no bushes, and at this particular moment they actually had a pretty good spotlight created by a well-aimed patch of light from the setting sun shining through the branches of a tree at the bottom of the hill.  Surely they were aware that they were in the company of 16 thespians rehearsing a play, as well as various other park-dwellers in relative close proximity.  Did they think the brilliance of our performance would overshadow their lovemaking, drawing all eyes past their show and onto our stage?  That’s flattering, I suppose, but unrealistic.  While Benedick and Beatrice confessed their love with words onstage, Amorous Park Exhibitionists 1 and 2 gave us a real live physical love demonstration.

Ah, the wonders of Nature.

July 16, 2011: Words to the Wise

07-16-11

So, I was at a film shoot a few months ago during which one of the camera guys made an off-handed comment, during one of the breaks, that he hates people who blog: “I mean, really, YOUR LIFE IS NOT THAT INTERESTING!” – I think those were his exact words.

Being, in general, an even-tempered and non-confrontational person, I smiled, nodded, and declined to offer the argument that I blog, and this must therefore mean he hates ME.  I think this would have killed both the conversation and the good cheer of those involved in the filming.

But his comment has been festering in the back of my brain since then, and it makes me want to blog in an especially witty, creative and deeply meaningful fashion.  So in an attempt to make this entry more profound, I offer this moral in advance: “Observation is the Seed of Wisdom.”

Steve and I joined a gym last week.

It seemed like an appropriate decision, given my obsession with working out and the gym’s proximity to our apartment: Google maps says that from our front door to theirs, it is 0.6 miles by car or 0.3 miles by foot.  It’s less if I cut across my neighbor’s lawn and hop the wall around the gym parking lot.  I’m certain that if necessary, a carrier pigeon could deliver a message from me to my personal trainer in 45 seconds.  That is, of course, assuming I had paid the extra monthly fee to hire a personal trainer.

This brings me to my next point.  As part of the sales pitch to get us to become gym members, our sales associate offered me and Steve each a personal training session with the gym manager himself (we’ll call him Albert).  I remember thinking it odd that the gym manager would conduct these sessions – isn’t that why they pay a staff of personal trainers with varying hours and specialties (and, presumably, a lower paycheck)?

My question was answered when I showed up for mine two days later.  Albert and I were scheduled for an hour together, which seemed like kind of a lot of personal training, but I was up for the challenge.

The challenge turned out not to be related to muscle strength or flexibility, but to endurance of a sales presentation.

I spent the first 25 minutes of our session filling out a questionnaire about my health and fitness goals, and listening to Albert’s speech about the pillars of health and fitness, complete with a myriad of chicken-scratchy illustrations he provided on the back of my questionnaire as he spoke.

For about 15 minutes in the middle of our session, Albert led me to one end of the gym and had me do some pretty basic lunges, squats, and ab exercises.  He reminded me repeatedly that the session he was giving me was different from any other gym because it was tailored specifically to my personal needs.  I wanted to ask him how that was true, but he never really stopped talking.

The last 20 minutes of our session were back at Albert’s desk with a sheet of rates and an impressive list of reasons why I needed to sign up for a year of personal training RIGHT THEN.  Albert told me that during my workout he noticed that my lower back and upper body were very weak, that my right side was stronger than my left side, and that it was imperative that I work out with a trainer to avoid injury and ensure that I meet my fitness goals.

Let’s examine his observations a little more closely:

 1.   That my lower back and upper body were very weak.  Now, I don’t mean to brag – that really isn’t my point.  But I can do bicep curls with 20-pound weights, and I can do pull-ups without assistance.  So, I’m sorry Albert, but I’m inclined to disagree with that part of your assessment – and I also wonder how you felt you could determine the shape of my upper body by watching me do lunges.

  
2.    That my right side was stronger than my left side.  OK.  Maybe that’s true.  Don’t we all have a dominant side?  And I wonder if his sole basis for this conclusion was his observation, while I was filling out the detailed questionnaire, that I am right handed.

3.   That it is imperative that I work out with a trainer to avoid injury and ensure that I meet my fitness goals.  Well, Albert, if you had read my questionnaire, you would have noticed that I have been working out consistently for 15 years, that my only injury of note was a broken tailbone 6 months ago from falling on the ice, and that my fitness goal is to maintain my current level of fitness.

So, thanks Albert, but I think I’ll pass.

Meet your intention to your observation, your observation to your word, and your word to your action – and there, you will find… I don’t know, truth?  Fulfillment?  Connection?  Success?  Albert, I wish you these things, and the inspiration to develop a more useful personal training pitch.

June 26, 2011: Lawn Bowling with Herb

06-26-11

Sometimes the best activities are unplanned.

My cousin Lexie bussed over from Washington, DC to visit me for the weekend, and on our way through Central Park to wait in line for free tickets for the evening’s Shakespeare in the Park performance, a guy handed us a flyer advertising “free food and lawn bowling” that afternoon.  He told us to turn right after the amphitheater and look for a lot of people wearing white – we couldn’t miss it.

We reached the line for Shakespeare in the Park at about noon, knowing they started handing out tickets at 1:00 for the evening’s 8pm performance.  I had noticed on the website that Shakespeare in the Park “neither suggests nor condones lining up before the park opens at 6am,” so I wondered vaguely if we were silly to expect to get tickets so late in the day.

As we approached the head of the line, we realized how the serious Shakespeare in the Park fans get it done.  There were several couples lounging on blankets, and one was even asleep on an air mattress.  Multiple groups had tables and folding chairs with picnic meals, drinks, and games of Scrabble or cards.  Further down the line, the less-prepared theatergoers were situated less comfortably, standing or sitting on the pavement, entertaining themselves with iPhones and conversation.  Lexie and I joined this second group at the end of the line (which was perhaps ¼ mile long) halfway between a trash can and some benches, directly on top of a sewer grate and at the edge of some shade.

We pretended we were waiting in line at Disney Land; we listened to a saxophone-playing busker who worked his way slowly down the line, playing a song and then moving 20 feet and playing another.  We giggled at the irony of his choice of location (he did realize, didn’t he, that he was asking for tips from a line full of freeloaders willing to waste the better part of a day standing in line for free theatre tickets?).  We accepted flyers for two alternate free Shakespeare performances by other local groups that we could attend if we were unable to get tickets for Shakespeare in the Park.  And finally, near 1:00 a security guard welcomed us to “Shakespeare in the Park: THE LINE,” informed us that there were 1800 seats in the theatre and pointed 50 yards behind us at the “Rock of Hope,” which marked the point at which they usually run out of tickets.

We did, in fact, get tickets, and headed off in search of the free food and lawn bowling (who could resist that combination of temptations?) advertised on the morning’s flyer.  Our search turned into a bit of a quest, as we discovered that turning right at the amphitheatre as our flyer-man had suggested led us to a row of locked Port-a-Potties, behind which were a pond for tiny sailboat racing, an Alice in Wonderland statue, and a petting zoo.  Retracing our steps and turning left instead of right, we encountered a harpist, 3 more saxophone players, a magic show, a street fair (where there was a couple racing against time to stuff a tent into a bag and put it into the trunk of a car, to a wildly cheering crowd; drummers on a stage; and 18 different kinds of tea to sample), and a group of toddlers pushing tiny soccer balls in slow motion in the general direction of several giant goals, to the vague encouragement of their brightly-clothed soccer camp leaders.  About to give up hope, we finally stumbled upon the lawn bowling about half a mile in the exact opposite direction our flyer friend had pointed us.

We were ushered into the club of men wearing white shirts and white hats, whose average age was approximately 70, and one woman who was handing out the balls.  We each chose a pair of the grapefruit-sized heavy lawn bowling balls and were shepherded to Herb, a white-haired, watery-eyed, slightly humpbacked gentleman who was proud to be in his fourth year of Lawn Bowling Club membership.  He explained the rules (you put one foot on the small mat and the other on the large mat and roll your ball at the target), the strategy (you want to roll your ball like a tire, and aim to the right of the target because your ball will curve slightly left if you’re holding it correctly), and the form (bend your knees! Stay low to the ground! Grip the ball tightly! Keep your eye on the target!).  After the first round, he played us left-handed, and still beat us, 8 to 1 to 1.

Then there was a game called Spider, where there was a white target ball in the middle of the field and we all spaced ourselves around the edges and rolled our balls at the target all at once.  It was 3 seconds of thrilling good fun, where the heavy black balls streaked toward each other like large, round spiders, then collided and ricocheted off each other, to end in a haphazard mess generally near the center of the field.  The person who rolled the ball that landed closest to the center won some free Lawn Bowling merchandise; I was within 3 balls of winning – ah, so close.

Afterwards, Herb gave us his business card and invited us to join the club – they play every Saturday and have free lessons on Monday nights.  I have no particular burning desire to pursue Lawn Bowling, but it was an afternoon of good, honest fun with kindhearted people.

June 19, 2011: Self-Discovery Through Destructuring

06-19-11

These past two weeks have flown by, and they have also been so full of experience and learning that it seems like I’ve been here much longer.

I am studying Fitzmaurice Voicework with Catherine Fitzmaurice herself, who spent more than 20 years developing the technique.  Catherine is a 70-something woman with a large but not intimidating presence.  She has long white hair and a deep, rich British voice that fills a room and commands attention.  But her energy is that of a much younger person: we did an exercise last week that involved swinging a padded paddle down onto some raised mats repeatedly and vigorously, and she demonstrated the technique herself; she told a ridiculous anecdote about an impromptu visit from her son that involved a late dinner and an even later viewing of Green Lantern in 3-D from the 4th row; she is plugged into the cyber-world on her Blackberry and her MacBook, and she is tickled by Google’s interactive Doodles.

But Catherine is not the only teacher in the program.  She brings a wide variety of skilled teachers from different backgrounds, each with a passion for the work as great as her own.  Studying with these various teachers gives me multiple ways into the work, and my curiosity and interest in continuing my journey with Fitzmaurice Voicework is truly piqued.

The technique is about more than vocal cords or resonance or articulation.  It is a whole-body, whole-self approach to voice.  “Destructuring,” which I’ve been studying for the last two weeks, involves opening up the body, breath, and voice through a combination of methods, mainly “tremoring,” which is just what it sounds like.  Inspired by yoga, Catherine found a number of different body positions that could be used to induce “tremor,” a gentle or vigorous shaking in the body.  We actually tremor naturally – when we’re cold, afraid, anxious, or exhausted – it’s part of our body’s natural healing system.  When we induce tremor, we encourage the breath to open up in different ways, and we shake loose long-held tensions, which often releases emotions that we unknowingly hold with those tensions.  This is helpful for an actor because it helps to realize a wider range of expressivity, and it is helpful for the voice because it allows a wider, fuller, more resonant and open sound.  And, as an added bonus, I have found that it is helpful for me as a human being, not only because of the cathartic nature of the process of release, but because through this process I am discovering a depth and a strength within myself.

June 5, 2011: Impressions of New York

It’s Sunday night before I start Fitzmaurice Voice Teacher Certification classes for a month in New York.  I’ve been here since Wednesday, and I’m afraid there may be too many impressions rattling around in my head to flow cohesively into any sort of congruous story.

My room is in a 3-bedroom apartment in Astoria that I share with 4 roommates: 2 human and 2 feline.  The cats run the place.  They’re very friendly and very bold, and if they get into a bedroom they shed everywhere, destroy things, or crawl under the bed never to be retrieved.  So we all keep our doors shut all the time, and our schedules are so different that we rarely see each other.

Since I’ve been in town, I’ve reconnected with a friend from college, five friends from my Russia program, and two friends from South Florida.  I’ve been to the Metropolitan Art Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, Central Park, and I’ve seen a play called Cradle and All.  I’ve admired the Empire State Building, walked through Times Square, and used the bathroom in Trump Tower.  I’ve gotten the songs of various street names stuck in my head as I navigated between these places: “42^nd Street,” “Broadway,” “6^th Avenue Heartache.”  I’ve bought an “I <3 New York” T-shirt.  I’m living the romantic, adventurous city-girl life.

And yet, I don’t love New York.  Perhaps my brief stint living in L.A. soured me on all big cities forever, or maybe I’m just a suburban girl by blood.  I’m glad I’ve figured out that even though I’m an actor and most of us resolve to move to a big city at some point to make our breaks, the city just isn’t for me.  It’s fun to visit, but I don’t want to stay.

Homeless people abound here.  I suppose that’s true of any city.  But there seems to be something different about the homeless people here.  Last night as I got off the subway, there was a homeless man sitting by the subway exit who had fallen asleep in a half-eaten bowl of soup (at least, I think he was sleeping.  I didn’t check to see if he was alive.).  In the same spot tonight as I left the subway, two policemen were leading a very drunk homeless man down the stairs toward a waiting ambulance and more cops.  I saw a woman who looked comparatively clean and “normal” holding a sign saying she was recently widowed and had lost everything.  If she hadn’t been sitting on the street holding the sign, she would not have looked homeless at all.  But the girl who made the biggest impression on me could not have been older than 21 or 22 and like the widowed woman, looked comparatively clean.  She was sitting on some steps with a cup and a sign that said “scared, desperate, HUNGRY, please help,” and her deeply circled eyes had, not the expression of mental instability or vacancy common to the homeless, but such a deep sadness that I couldn’t help but think she had moved to New York to make her dreams come true and was mourning the inexplicable loss of those dreams.  A lady walking in front of me handed the girl a Ziploc sack of quarters, and this action startled the girl out of her depressed gaze.  She looked blankly at the change for a second, and then smiled at the lady with a combination of relief and awe that, although genuinely thankful, barely covered the sadness with which she was so clearly consumed.

New York can swallow a person.  The sheer number of people here is incomprehensible to me.  My apartment in Astoria is not in “the city,” but still out my window all I see are tall buildings – people on top of people on top of people.  They fill the sidewalks, the subways, the cafes and bookstores.  They move in throngs to the designated “park” areas, the only grass that exists anywhere.  Sucking the exhaust and wafting aromas of garbage, urine, and the sewer, they don headphones to drown out the noise of traffic and go jogging, darting between the dog-walkers and slow-moving tourists.  They chase The American Dream that everyone believes exists here, but I am hard-pressed to find it.  What I see is dirt, impatience, and the thick shell that necessarily develops on everyone who decides to put up with it all to live in a place where everything happens.  I suppose it’s laudable.  I couldn’t do it; I would crumble within a year.

Despite my cynical tone, I truly am enjoying myself here.  I am grateful to experience some of what New York has to offer without having to harden myself permanently against everything that bothers me about the city.  And I hope I haven’t offended anyone who loves New York.  I think my opinion of the city is a minority one:  18.9 million people choose to live here, and another 48.7 million (and rising) tourists visit yearly.  I’m just one Western girl with one opinion, looking forward to a month in The Big Apple, and to going home at the end of that month.

May 14, 2011: The Longest Train Ride

WARNING: this entry is rated PG-13, or possibly R.  You might think I’m kidding, but then you’ll realize I’m not.  OK, you’ve been warned.

On Monday night I attended the second meeting for a theatre-related organization of which I’m proud to be a founding member.  We’re basically combining two awesome things: recycling/sharing and the arts.  When we get it up and running, it will be a big warehouse with a meeting room and a bunch of space to store all kinds of arts materials (in the theatre world, we’re thinking set pieces that have been used and would otherwise be thrown away due to lack of storage space).  We want to keep art materials/supplies out of the landfills and also enable them to be reused to make MORE ART!

But this is not the point of my story.

After the meeting on Monday night, at the late, scary hour of 8:40 pm, I took the train home.  It’s about a 20 minute ride from downtown to my stop, and with the approach of summer, the last threads of dusk light faded as I boarded the train.

I sat in the first bank of seats by the door, the kind that are a group of four, with two facing forward and two facing backward.  If you put a table in between them it might be a good place to play checkers or have high tea – you know, if it wasn’t a public train in the no-fare zone smelling faintly of booze and body odor.

I almost had the train to myself.  My section of “high tea” seats was nestled comfortably between the barrier of glass (I wonder if it’s bullet-proof?  I wonder why it’s there?) on either side of the doors in front of me, and a partial wall hiding the accordion-turning-thingy (that’s the technical term for it) separating the front part of the car from the back part of the car.  A guy chillin’ with his headphones was slouched about six seats (and two bullet-proof glass sheets) in front of me, and a girl talking on her cell phone was sitting all the way in the front.  The back of the car was empty.  I had one stop to enjoy my quiet, stress-free evening ride.

At the first stop, a biker dude carried his bike up the steps and headed toward the back of the car, and I wondered vaguely why he didn’t choose the next car (there is always at least one train car that doesn’t have steps up, to accommodate bikers, wheelchairs, elderly people, strollers, and people who have a disaffinity to stairs).  He was followed by a guy and a girl whispering rapidly to each other, and a skinny pale guy wearing running shorts and a baggy black sweatshirt.  He’s really the star of our story; we’ll call him Creepster McGillicutty.

Creepster McG, seeing (I’m sure) the vast array of available empty seats in both parts of the train car, took one look at me in my yoga pants, windbreaker, and blank expression and thought, “SHE needs a BLOG entry.  I have JUST the story for her.”

Ah, but Creepster McGillicutty was a man of few words and many body positions.  His first posture, as he sat down in my seating bay facing toward me, revealed to me that he was not, in fact, wearing running shorts.  No, he was wearing a baggy black sweatshirt… and sneakers.

It occurred to me at this moment to get up and exit the train before the doors closed.  It occurred to me, in fact, to scream loudly as I did so “Somebody call the driver!  Somebody call the cops!  Somebody give that guy some underwear!”  But you see, Creepster McG had stretched his legs out toward me, so that exiting would have forced me to step over them, and in my shock and rising panic at Creepster’s law-breaking boldness, I had the smallest suspicion that I might not reach the doors alive.  Or, that I would stumble and touch something that should be reserved for police reports and porn.

So the doors closed and the train rumbled on.  Aiming my eyes out the window but focusing my peripheral vision on my view of Creepster McGillicutty, I forced my gaze to remain bored and standoffish.  My mind raced.  Creepster leered, opened his legs a bit wider and leered some more.

Nobody got on at the next stop, and I thought, again, about trying to get off the train.  Panic turned into fleeting celebration as Creepster McG got up and moved, but only one seat away.  Now he was sitting in the aisle seat across from me leaning forward into the aisle, his eyes still boring holes into me, his unmentionable parts flopping freely.  I wondered: is he going to say something?  Does he want ME to say something?  But I didn’t move; I didn’t speak; I didn’t take my peripheral vision off him.

The train raced on, stopping once more before crossing the river.  I heard a group of people talking as they got on at the doors behind me, and I was glad of more possible witnesses of my plight.  But they didn’t take any notice, and Creepster and I remained alone in our semi-private room of bullet-proof glass, accordion-partial walls and “high tea” seats. 

As we took off across the river, Creepster McGillicutty settled in for the trek.  He scooted over one more seat and leaned against the window, putting one leg up on the chair beside him and opening the other leg, if possible, a little wider.  He leered at me.  I held my front of disinterest.  I decided to get off the train at the next stop, even though it was three stops early.

An eternity later, at the next stop on the other side of the river, a man entered the train through the doors ahead of us.  Although he didn’t seem to notice the situation, Creepster McG decided to move on and end my misery.  He got up and walked toward the back of the train, and the partial wall blocked my vision, so I don’t know who else he harassed.

I got off at my stop, power walked home, raged at Steve, posted a humorous Facebook status, bought some mace… and here we are, five days later, at the end of our story.  I heard that the first Friday of May was National No Pants Day, and according to Google, it’s true.  But also according to Google, you’re supposed to wear thick, modest underwear on National No Pants Day, and also my story happened on the SECOND MONDAY of May, and also we don’t live in a society of Aborigine hunter-gatherers, and also… just… PUT ON SOME PANTS and LEAVE ME ALONE!

That’s all.