Spitball Army

Late February, 1995.
New York City.
The Metropolitan Opera House.

I arranged a trip to The City to celebrate my birthday weekend with a friend.  My arrival a night early was scheduled to attempt attendance at The Met, no matter what the opera was.  It turns out that the company was performing Der Rosenkavalier, and I was able to purchase a seat.  Lofty seat, that, at what seemed like the highest point in the house, immediately stage right with about a 67 percent view of the stage.  No matter, it was all about the experience.

At one of the three breaks between acts, I took an exploratory excursion down the many staircases that spiraled toward the basement.  The Met, between acts, is one big 15-minute speed-party out in the lobbies, and all of the people are beautiful.  My inner voyeur found it nearly as entertaining as the opera.  I tried to spot celebrities, but saw none.  Budgeting time for the climb back to my aerie, I went in to use the basement men’s room.

Business done, I headed out of the bathroom.  Upon opening the exit door, I found myself face to face – actually, face to chest – with a tall, elderly man in professorial dress, sporting a lengthy growth of white beard.  I immediately recognized his face from the dust jackets of several books in my library as belonging to the writer Robertson Davies.

“Mr. Davies,” says I.

He stopped and stood like a wall in front of me.  While I fumbled to say something else, he silently assessed this person who was blocking his passage to relief.

“Fifth Business is one of my very favorite books,” blurts I.

“Oh?”  He paused.  “Why?” says he.

And I found myself in an extremely awkward situation, blocking traffic both into and out of the men’s room at the Metropolitan Opera House during the speed-break, trying to conjure a brief reply to Robertson Davies’ essay question.  I blurted out my response, much too quickly for a poetic interpretation, but certainly at a pace where he could recognize the words, which were from the first chapter of his book.

“Our village lacked the dignity of outskirts.”  The words cartwheeled out of my mouth and clattered on the tile floor by my feet while the rest of the world stood still around us.

His brow raised slightly, and he looked directly at me.  “Thank you.”  He then excused himself and walked around me into the restroom.

(photo: Nancy Crampton)

Our village was so small that you came upon it at once; it lacked the dignity of outskirts.  I darted up the street, putting on speed, for I had looked ostentatiously at my new Christmas dollar watch (Percy had a watch but was not let wear it because it was too good) and saw that it was 5:57; just time to get indoors, wash my hands in the noisy, splashy way my parents seemed to like, and be in my place at six, my head bent for grace.  Percy was by this time hopping mad, and I knew I had spoiled his supper and probably his whole evening.  Then the unforeseen took over.

– from page two of Fifth Business, by Robertson Davies