"Find any open table," the volunteer said. We shuffled through the room, looking for open seats next to fellow performers or the homeless veterans who'd just sat in our audience. They'd come in from the nearby VA to watch the show and have a meal, and easily established themselves as the best audience of the run. Enthusiastic, encouraging, engaged. Every high note received applause. Every partner lift was met with oohs. During bows, those who were able stood. They all shouted, "Thank you!" The audience was thanking us. Unprecedented.
I found a seat next to a few castmates and a few vets: Martin, a shy-smiling grandfather who walked with a cane and reluctantly confessed to his time in Panama and Desert Storm. Earl was a big bear with a fast mouth who took off his New England Patriots cap to explain the quote written on it, spoken by his favorite player, Tom Brady. His hat was covered in Vietnam pins.
We broke bread, as they say. While we ate turkey and potatoes, we spoke of the show and rehearsals and which numbers were their favorites. "Them girls were in sure good shape, I told my friend!" Earl boomed. "I mean, all that dancing! Them folks that didn't come sure missed a show." We crossed our fingers for Martin and Earl to win the raffle--each prize was a handmade blanket. When Earl's number was called, he chose the smallest one. "I can't have nothing that's too big to carry with me. This one sure looks soft."
Talk gradually got deeper. Martin was quiet--head bowed close to his plate, eating quickly and taking pictures with his phone--while Earl carried the conversation, talking about his four kids and their troubles. Drugs. Abandonment. Neglect. Deep, hard truths. By this time, we'd been served our dessert, but my pie sat, untouched, as Earl spoke.
When the meal came to an end and the bus arrived to take the vets back to the VA, I asked if it would be okay to give each man a hug. Martin went first, using his cane to walk to the end of the table where I stood.
"You have the best smile," I said. He did. Martin's smile lit up the room. When he smiled, he meant it for the world.
"Oh gosh. Thank you. It'll be better when I have my teeth fixed," he said, taking pains to smile with his lips together.
"No! When you smile, I don't see your teeth. I see your heart." It was true. Martin was kindness on hard times. He hugged me again, longer this time, before quietly picking up his cane and heading toward the door.
"Earl, can I hug you now?" I said, making my way to the other end of the table. Earl jumped to his feet and hugged me, thanking me for the day while I thanked him for the great conversation.
"I...I wanna give you something," he said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a white towel. It was torn on one side, but clean, the kind of towel you'd use to wash a car with. "It's a rag. It ain't nothing. But I want you to have it."
I took the towel from him and looked at it for a long minute, maybe too long. "It ain't nothing," he repeated. His voice was strong. Proud. "It's just a rag. But I just wanted to give it to you."
They say when a child gives you a gift--a dandelion, a crayon drawing, a stub of a pencil--it should be taken and cherished. Children give what they have, and it is all they have. They have given you all they have. Earl was not a child—far from it—but the gift was just as sincere.
There's a story in the Bible about this one time Jesus sat down outside the temple and watched the crowd putting their money into the treasury for offering. The rich folks threw all kinds of money in. Big money. And then this one woman--a poor widow--walks up and puts two very small copper coins in the coffers. They were barely worth anything.
Jesus called everyone around him and said, “Listen to me, guys, cause this is important: what this lady just gave is worth more than all that other money combined. Those rich folks had tons of money to give, but they had to sacrifice nothing. But this woman? She had nothing and gave in everything—all she had to live on.”
Sometimes theatre is literature, meant to provoke and inspire. Sometimes it's entertainment, meant to bring joy and laughter.
Sometimes, it's meant to do work that can't be done any other way. Sometimes, hidden in the middle of a six-shows-in-two-days performance marathon, your life is suddenly made clear by an angel in a Vietnam hat. By a man with a silver cane and a closed-lipped smile.
Thank you, Martin and Earl. I sang Christmas songs for you, but you gave Christmas to me.
-LL, 12.11.16
