I tried to get their early enough to get good seats. Even getting there fifty minutes before curtain, I struggled to find a parking place and then found myself squeezing in to a space no one had taken because it was right in front of a sound reinforcement speaker.
My left ear is ringing, no joke. But after I was settled in, another dude came and put his blanket in an even worse spot relative to the speaker, and watched the play reclined so he could see under rather than over it.
Either people are so desperate for diversion they'll go to anything if it's free, or Shakespeare enjoys popularity beyond most High Art.
Of course, the reason is Shakespeare wasn't aiming at High Art. He was a whore to commerce, and bless him, but a great whore. One who is worth the money spent, the health compromised by VD and the divorce sought by your wife when she finds out about the VD and how you got it.
The Juliet was a bit over the top, which I suppose is legit: she's supposed to be almost fourteen. Maybe it wouldn't have seemed as obnoxious if it wasn't louder than Hell's Angels riding into a Metallica show (due to my unfortunate seat by the speaker), but I couldn't wait for that bitch to bite it.
Still, a good performance all round, full of those great literary virtues: sex, violence, irony and a tidy summing up.
At intermission, I went to use the portapot, and I'd say this is a reason not to go on closing night. Opening night would be better, when the portapots are fresh and innocent. But somewhere between June 19 and July 8, damn...
This chick in front of me was making a face. Not a production, just an honest apprehension. And for my own part, I almost decided I could hold it until after the show, it was that bad even waiting in line a relatively safe twenty feet or so out.
I said, 'I know, I don't want to go in there either.'
Which is maybe the worst opening line ever, I know. But dig it: the reason I didn't decide I could forgo peeing was this girl was absolutely death by sexy. And did not seem repulsed by this middle-aged bald guy trying to chat her up in the line for the loo. Maybe I was just not as repulsive as the outhouses, who knows?
It went amazingly well. She had an accent I couldn't quite place. Easily six feet tall, she was dark, Latin looking but the accent wasn't Mexico, wasn't Spanish based. I hadn't gotten around to asking her where she was from when it was finally her turn to go into the actual Bog of Eternal Stench.
Then, if I didn't go in, I'd look like some desperate fool who would stalk a girl in the portapot line. While that would be an accurate representation on many levels, dignity made me hold my breath and go in.
But I spotted her on my way back to my seat. Taking pictures with an adorable little girl. Her kid? Maybe. But I'd seen no ring, and it'd been relatively easy chatting her up. Single mother? What better match for a single father? And if ever there was a fit for me, it'd be a six-footer who'd take her kid to Shakespeare in the Park.
The kid didn't really look like her, and there was a man and another woman over there, matching canvas chairs and all that. So who knows? But the Amazon didn't seem to fit with the guy as well as the other woman.
So anyway, we were only sitting about thirty feet apart so it was easy to make sure I fell in step with said Amazon when the show let out. And chatted with her some more, including asking if that was her kid. Oh, no, she laughed. Then the guy said, 'No she's ours.'
I wanted to ask for a name and phone number, but friends, family whatever these folks were to her, I didn't want to put her on the spot. They went left and I was parked to the right when we exited, but then I thought I spotted my opening: they were parked very close, and were getting in their car. And she was the last one not in. I had just about succeeded in getting her attention when the other woman gets out of the car and comes around. She asked me what I wanted, and I said that I'd wanted to ask a girl for her phone number without putting her on the spot in front of her friends or family.
I know, such blatant honesty, but I didn't have time to come up with a good lie. Whatever that would have been.
'She's visiting from Brazil,' the woman said, as if that was that.
I skulked off wondering if I'd misjudged the age of the Amazon by so much that I'd hit on a high school exchange student. But no, I thought as I went to my car. When I was in high school, the exchange students always stayed with American high school kids' families. There was no American teenager in this family unit. A relative? A collegiate year abroad? Surely, the Amazon was young but not that young. Twenty-two, at least, I'm sure of it.
But then, Juliet is supposed to be fourteen, right?
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