In 1983, I was traveling with a tiny theater company
doing vaudeville-type shows in community centers
and bars—anywhere we could earn $25 each plus
enough gas money to get to the next small town in
our ramshackle yellow bus.
As we passed through Bozeman, Montana, in early
February, a heavy snow slowed us down. The radio
crackled warnings about black ice and poor
visibility, so we opted to impose on friends who
were doing a production of Fiddler on the Roof at
Montana State University. See a show, hit a few
bars, sleep on a sofa: This is as close to prudence
as it gets when you’re an itinerant 20-something
troubadour.
After the show, well-wishers and stagehands milled
behind the curtain. I hugged my coat around me,
humming that “If I Were a Rich Man” riff from the
show, aching for sunrise and sunset, missing my
sisters. What a wonderful show that was—and is.
A heavy metal door swung open, allowing in a blast
of frigid air, and clanged shut behind two men who
stomped snow from their boots. One was big and
bearlike in an Irish wool sweater and gaiters; the
other was as tall and skinny as a chimney sweep in
a peacoat.
“… but I’m just saying, it would be nice to see some
serious theater,” one of them said. “Chekhov, Ibsen,
anything but this musical comedy shtick.”
“Excuse me?” I huffed, hackles raised. “Anyone who
doesn’t think comedy is an art form certainly hasn’t
read much Shakespeare, have they?”
I informed them that I was a “professional
shticktress” and went on to deliver a tart, pedantic
lecture on the French neoclassics, the cultural
impact of Punch and Judy as an I Love Lucy
prototype, and the importance of Fiddler on the Roof
as both artistic and oral history. The shrill diatribe
left a puff of frozen breath in the air. I felt my
snootiness showing like a stray bra strap as the
sweep in the peacoat rolled his eyes and walked
away.
The bear stood there for a moment, an easy smile in
his brown eyes. Then he put his arms around me
and whispered in my ear, “I love you.”
I took in a deep, startled breath—winter, Irish wool,
coffee, and fresh-baked bread—and then pushed
