Game On
I emailed Ron the moment I heard. “The MJ jury’s gone home for the night. Game on.”
Rivulettes of sweat were running down my spine by the time I got to my apartment. Mike and Chris were waiting on the stoop, styrofoam cooler in hand. “The cooler went over well at The Yale Club,” Mike said.
“Ivy Leaguers need cold beer too,” I said.
Game on.
Last night, Ron and Jodi Lieber and I threw a book release party for “2 Do Before I Die” editors Mike Ogden and Chris Day. On my roof deck. On a 90° night. We squeezed fifty people onto my little slab of cement way up in the New York sky. We served champagne and deep dish pizza flown in from Chicago. And we had a great time.
When night had fallen, and the party was at its critical mass, Mike and Chris said a few words of thanks. They presented me with a custom-made “2 Do Before I Die” t-shirt (“Meet My Childhood Hero”) and flattered me with their praise.
Truth is, I owe them the thanks. Mike and Chris and Ron and their peers are the kind of folks I want to know more of. They’re writers and journalists and artists, and they’re not hell-bent on being hip, happening, or cool. Which as far as I’m concerned, is about as hip, happening and cool as is possible.
By the time the last stragglers left Ron, Mike, Chris, Heather and I clutching our increasingly warm beers on this increasingly cool night, I was exhausted. We bagged up the empties, boxed up the leftovers, and collapsed in front of the AC. Ron guzzled large volumes of Poland Springs, Mike picked at my guitar, Heather and Chris kept gabbing, as I struggled to stay awake.
This morning, I resisted the urge to microwave some pizza for breakfast. Instead, I stood in front the AC and ate a few scoops of mint chocolate chip. I was tired. I wished I didn’t have to go outside into the ridiculous heat or fake my way through a day of work. I wished Mike and Chris lived in New York instead of London. I wished I had more friends like Ron, Mike, and Chris. And I was bummed.
So, here I am at The MTV, buoyed by the memory of lots of great laughter, lots of great heart, and lots of great friends.
2 Do
The further downtown I go, the more anxious I become.
I’m on the 2/3. I’m listening to my iPod while reading my essay. I am imagining the sound of my voice over the sound of The Who’s “Eminence Front.” I am practicing emphatic pauses. And the further downtown I go, the more anxious I become.
For weeks, no, for months, I have been lobbying the editors of “2 Do Before I Die,” Mike Ogden and Chris Day, to host a reading.
Be careful what you ask for.
I overshoot Houston, and hop a local back uptown. The venue, Junno’s, is mere steps from the subway station. So I walk around the block to try and gather my wits. I take a deep breath, and try and slow my racing mind.
‘Speak clearly,’ I remind myself. ‘Speak slowly. Deep voice. Calm down, calm down, calm down.”
I step inside the venue. Bespectacled, cute, literary-type women dot the room. My buddy Ron, the Wall Street Journal reporter who suggested I submit my story in the first place, is already here. I saddle up to the bar, order a Stella, and hold an awkward with him. I’m nervous.
Nervous, me. I’ve been performing for fifteen years. I love standing in front of people. But I always have a guitar to hold onto, or at least a mic stand. And there’s music to blend into. Not tonight. Tonight, it’s just Mr. Rogers and me.
Heather and Rach show up. This is a sweet development, but only makes me more nervous. I order another Stella. Mike and Chris begin the evening.
I am the seventh of eight readers. I hear the other “2 Do” storytellers — wear high heels, do nothing, sing opera, quit my job, graduate college, do standup — but it’s impossible for me to be 100% present. I feel like a tiny astronaut high atop an Apollo rocket. 6 … 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 …
“Hello. My name is Benjamin Wagner, and my story is entitled, “Meet My Childhood Hero.”
Liftoff.
Best as I can tell, I am speaking clearly. I am speaking slowly. I am speaking in a deep voice. I’m not stuttering, or mumbling. I pause emphatically. I look up to the audience and make eye contact. Best as I can tell, it’s going well.
“Easy enough,” I conclude, pausing emphatically. “Right?”
I smile sheepishly, roll up my story, and walk back to my seat. I sit down, neck warm, head spinning, and take a long tug on my beer. As the final reader starts her story (“Live Alone”), it occurs to me that, in a small way, I have succeeded in Mr. Rogers challenge. “Spread the deep and simple message, Benjamin,” he once said. And I have. And I feel good.
But I also feel sad. I miss him. I wish I could call him, tell him, “I did it! I spread the message!” I wish he was still here.
Then I hear a voice in my head. “I’m right here, Benjamin.”
I return to Earth.
