How to Ruin an Evening at the Theatre

This happened a few weeks ago, and as soon as it did, I announced to my friend/witness to the incident: "I am so blogging this." And then I went home, reviewed the play I'd just seen, wrote a column, wrote an event preview, found a video post, and went to bed. The following weeks were consumed by Phillyist, job hunting, and (possibly too much) alcohol. I never forgot that I wanted to write this up. I just didn't have a moment, until now. (My lunch plans have been cancelled.)

You see, I was at a performance of Caroline, or Change at the Arden. The show is staged almost in the round: if I were to get really technical about it, I'd call it an octagonal thrust, maybe. Anyway, the thing with performing on a thrust stage is that, often, the audience is just as well-lit as the actors are. When you're the one onstage, it's damned distracting. And apparently, when you're in the audience, it can be, too.

Enter Ken.


At intermission, a fortysomething guy approached my friend/witness and me at our seats. He looked familiar, and was so direct in his approach, that I just kind of assumed he worked at the Arden, saw my press kit sitting on my lap, and was coming to "check in" on me. Sometimes, theatre folk will do that. It's obnoxious and sycophantic, but I'm seeing a play for free, so I put up with it. Anyway, from the moment he opened his mouth, it became apparent that Ken did not, in fact, work for the Arden. Opening line: "You'll have to forgive me for staring across the stage at you during the first act."

Ummm... It was a damned big stage. There was a lot going on on it. Even if you were sitting directly across the stage from me, I shouldn't have been that distracting.

He continues: "I'm sure we've met."

Me, because at this point, I need to close my mouth and stop staring. "Yeah, you look kind of familiar, too."

Him, oblivious of my discomfort: "Yeah, I was thinking how familiar you looked, and then, about two songs in, I saw you yawn, and I was like, 'Yep, I know her.'"

What. The. Fuck. Is this guy coming into my apartment at night to watch me sleeping?

Me, mortified: "Yeah. I yawn a lot."

Him, trying to make an opening where there is none: "Oh really? Because I just thought you were tired, so I was just coming over to see if you'd had a long day or something."

I am clearly with someone. If I needed to share the details of my long day (which wasn't long at all—I think I woke up at eleven), I would share them with her.

Ken (he'd given his name by that point) then proceeds to launch into an incredibly banal, mostly one-sided, conversation about, among other things:

• His brief career as a professional light tech on Broadway.


• What he was going to do his Ph.D. on, and why that didn't happen, including a long sidebar on the institution's funding.


• Cognitive psychology.

My polite, one-sentence answers to his questions was apparently all it took for him to then say: "Wow, a girl who knows theatre and psychology! You seem so cool! I'd love to get to know you better!" (Yes, they were all exclamations.)

My friend/witness proceeded to try to hide behind my shoulder to stifle her laughter. I looked at her, hoping for an out. Then, I looked around me and, mercifully, noticed that the audience was coming back into the theatre and taking their seats for Act II. "Listen," I told him, relieved. "Everyone is going back to their seats. Track me down after the show."

He seemed pleased enough, and headed back to his seat. The seat from which he proceeded to stare at me through the whole second half of the show, effectively keeping me from watching all of the goings-on on part of the stage, because if I looked in that direction, he'd do his damndest to lock eyes with me, sealing the deal with a half-nod and a little wave. Leaning over to my friend/witness, I announced that, post-show talkback that I'd been looking forward to be damned, we were booking it when the show finished.

Holy crap: final song, curtain call. I'm hardly standing before I notice Ken heading in my direction. And then, mercifully, an octogenarian with a walker steps right in front of him. It was like a movie. Friend/witness and I grab our stuff and practically run out of the theatre, and don't stop until we're a few blocks away, because honest-to-god, I half expected him to come running after me saying: "You said to track you down!"