Yesterday, I decided I’d return my commission and give up on Deja New. I didn’t see another option. When I’m writing, I get interrupted, and when there are no interruptions, I can’t focus. It’s like I’ve developed an adverse reaction to playwriting.
And so I spent the day preparing for my date to distract me from my life and mentally composing a letter to Sammy Ronstein telling him that I wouldn’t be finishing Deja New. I visualized a life without writing in it. I visualized a life with new pursuits, a new career, and a new man named John.
I wanted this man I had yet to meet to think I was a woman who quoted other people, smart people, philosophers, and comedians. I wanted him to think I remembered lines from movies and plays. If my divorce came up, I wanted to be Nora Ephron witty: “I have made a lot of mistakes falling in love, and regretted most of them, but never the potatoes that went with them.”
I planned to introduce John to an aspirational me. If things clicked, I would work harder to maintain aspirational me, the me who quotes Shakespeare, and if he fell in love with aspirational me, I would have to become the aspirational me and I would no longer need to aspire to be who I wanted to be.
I memorized quotes by Emily Dickinson: “I dwell in Possibility.”
Samuel Beckett: “Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”
Joan Didion: “You have to pick the places you don’t walk away from.”
Charlie Brown: “Sometimes I lie awake at night and ask, ‘Where have I gone wrong?’ Then a voice says to me, ‘This is going to take more than one night.’”
I put on my favorite pair of black jeans and my teal shirt, which acknowledges but doesn’t accentuate my boobs and makes it appear that I have a waist. We met at the restaurant. I was surprised by how nice looking he was, and by nice looking, I mean he exuded a kind of benevolent hue. It’s not that he was strikingly handsome, but he had a lived-in, relaxed appearance, with thinning brownish and rather non-descript hair that was offset by a great smile, beautiful eyes that didn’t avoid making contact, but weren’t aggressive contact makers, and a warmth in his body language. So many men keep their arms crossed, like they’re erecting a gate between you and them, but John’s arms were open, and he did this thing with his hands when he talked, it was almost like they were inviting you in. I felt comfortable with him immediately, which is unusual for me.
I ordered a glass of white wine, John got a beer, and we started chatting. It was easy. Our conversation popped along through the chicken satay. We seemed to have a lot in common. We both have Lance Armstrong obsessions—John, because he’s an avid bike rider, me, because I’m fascinated by the fallen hero narrative.
We were talking and eating, and I noticed he had the remnant of a noodle on his cheek, and while deliberating whether I should mention the food on his face, a wad of pad thai secured itself around a bite of shrimp, and instead of slipping down my esophagus, got stuck. I tried to swallow to push it down, but it wasn’t dislodging, so I took a gulp of water and attempted to swallow, but it still didn’t go down. The water bubbled and bounced back up into my mouth. I tried to hold it in, but I couldn’t. And that’s when I started making quacking sounds, sounding like a duck in distress. I tipped my head back and pad-thai-laced water shot up in the air before falling back onto my chin and dribbling down my teal shirt.
I can remember hearing someone in the restaurant yelling out, “Does she need the Heimlich?”
And John saying, “No. She’s coughing, so she’s breathing.”
The waitstaff formed a circle around me. I could feel water dribbling out of my mouth and down my neck. Someone asked, “Should I call an ambulance?”
I shook my head no.
Something shifted and the food went down. I took a breath and was able to say, “I’m okay. Thank you, everyone, for your concern.” And then came the applause. It grew louder and louder. The diners in the restaurant stood up and clapped. They were giving me a standing ovation. Okay, maybe they weren’t, but that’s what I was imagining, and at that moment it became absolutely clear to me that I needed to finish my play. I am not going to give up on this. I will keep writing. I know what the play is about. I’m just not sure how to get there. But I will find my way. I will finish. In the words of August Wilson: “Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing.”