For the better part of two years, I took countless introductory improv classes with instructors Bill Chott and George Malich at the Improv Trick. Never intending to take the work onto the public stage, I stayed at the intro level happily, aware that the constant rounds of workshops were still helping me in a myriad of ways, primarily in adding confidence as a public speaker and teacher. If you’re not naturally gregarious, a couple dozen sessions will definitely help you to put your mind at ease while in front of people, allowing you to stay more mentally nimble in all kinds of public situations.
And, yet, when thinking about applying those skills to a real-life scenario, well, I’m guess I’m still not at that point. Because last week, I set out to execute a long-desired concept to go out on Thanksgiving Day, with a sign in hand, setting up shop and asking for change at a highway exit. My thoughts weren’t to go all Upton Sinclair on anyone, pontificating about the changing American Empire on one of its holy days. Really, I was just curious to see what kinds of small conversations, or exchanges, might develop in that setting.
Seemed that there’d be plenty of variations. Would people automatically look away? Or might some stare? Would anyone engage me in a religious pep-talk, or a get-a-job motivation speech? With it being a foodie’s holiday, would people pass along some leftovers? And, perhaps most interestingly, what if someone I knew drove up and looked my way? So many possibilities, really.
Problem being: On Thursday I slept a bit too late and never quite came out of the starting blocks. By early afternoon, I hand-drew a simple sign (“Thanks for Giving”) that was both open-ended and seasonal. (I didn’t want to state that I was homeless or a veteran or anything else that would bring poor karma my way.) And with NPR as a companion, I drove south to an exit that I’ve seen worked a few times by those seeking spare change, the Broadway exit of I-55 North.
Sure enough, a woman was there, one I’d seen there before. Older, disheveled, safely described as gaunt. She was wimply standing and looking ahead, next to an overfull trash can, and without any personal sign of appeal. Since my “guess” spot was taken, I kept going down Broadway before hitting the County limits; figuring that I’d have a much better chance of talking myself out any type of cop-stop in the City, I bent back, but not before driving by the River City Casino, which was full of cars in the early afternoon. This made me think that a little spot on Alabama, a marked zone in the middle of the street might be the choice spot, but a woman in a nearby bus shelter seemed to be working on the holiday, too, giving the look from her cubbyhole. I wasn’t feeling the need to compete, so that was out.
On Germania, it seemed that the day had now provided an appropriate venue, the southbound exit onto Germania from I-55. Though I was already in a funky, mental place, aggravated and self-conscious, I parked on a lot next to River Des Peres, one that’s there for cyclists and for those curious about an overview look into the waterway. Walking to my spot, I noticed a guy washing his car on a side street; looking away quickly, I suddenly, like my cardboard sign, had turned huge and had the world looking at me, instead of just one guy, who, possibly, didn’t even register my intent.
With a week’s worth of stubble and some shabby clothes, I figured that I fit the profile as I walked up to the tiny triangular island at the bottom-of-a-hill exit. As I walked up, three cars got their green light and motored to the left, leaving me on the little triangle, unsure of what to think about next. And, by this point, my head had turned into a slot machine, too many thoughts moving way too quickly. What didn’t move quickly was the traffic. Suddenly, I showed up and the cars stopped, save for the one that caught a green and motored right on by. For several, long minutes I waited for even one more car to come my way, but none did until I started walking back to my car, in some type of dejected funk, at which point I looked over my shoulder to see three more lined up and waiting for the light. Ugh!
My game was off. And how. In the span of an hour, I’d become a pitcher unable to find the strike zone. A free throw shooter endlessly clanging iron. A runner with an chronically untied shoe. The only solution was a karmic one, it seemed, so I drove to the Broadway/I-55 exchange, in hopes of handing over the $27 in my shirt pocket, figuring that that’d be some type of entree back into action. But, of course, she was gone, having missed out on what I’d assumed would be her biggest donation of the day. Had I been able to ask her a question, or two, I’d at least have some kind of story to type up and share.
This’ll have to do for now.
But there will be another chapter.
