Point of No Return

I wish I could say I remember watching the entire play of "Phantom of the Opera" on Broadway. I really do. I wish I could say I listened intently to the magic of the operatic voices unfold before me like petals of a great and mystical flower… but I can’t. What is to blame for this amnesia-filled night you ask? The answer is simple… my first martini.

In New York during the most massive snowstorm since the turn of the century, you can do one of two things: Stay indoors like most sane, intelligent people… or not. We tourists who have only ever dreamed of visiting the intoxicating city would never let a few feet of snowfall stand in our way. Never! Yes, it was my very first trip to the Big Apple and I intended on taking as many bites as I could.

My itinerary had started out as a simple devil-may-care bullet point of things I would do, things I might do, and things I would love to do but simply couldn’t afford them; unfortunately, one of my co-workers had a massive crush on the city, and before I knew it I was scheduled to watch three major Broadway productions, two of which took place in one day….

"Phantom" was the only show I had chosen myself and so I was thoroughly excited from the moment my friend booked the seats, prime seats I might add. Center section and right next to the aisle; later that evening you will not even believe how grateful I was for that….

Just before the show, we opted for a cozy window seat in a bar just across from the Majestic in order to escape the bitter, cold wind whipping around our red noses and ears like an energetic child begging us to pay attention to it. Everything about the bar screamed New York; from the heavy mahogany to the dry-humored Irish waitress who asked “What’ll you be havin’ there lass?” It took all my willpower to keep from squealing like a delighted little girl. I was in heaven.

Even before I opened the menu I knew what I wanted; no drink said "New York" to me like an old-fashioned martini. So I ordered one. If I were Jewish, this is the part I would say “Oy vey.” She proceeded to ask how I wanted it. As I stared at her like a puppy with it’s head cocked to one side, I told her I didn’t know, so to make it as old fashioned as possible... but with a huge side of olives. Within moments, she brought me a very dry gin martini chock full of olives. Before I could send it back and ask for one with the olives on the side, she was already taking another table’s order. Ok….

Somewhere in the archives of my old computer lies a picture. It is a picture of me taking the first sip of a my very first martini… and it shall remain in those archives until I am drunk enough to post it on the internet someday in the future…. My taste buds exploded, my eyes shut, and my face contorted in ways I didn’t even know it could. I suddenly became spastically aware of muscles I didn’t even know I had. The waitress seemed to sense something was wrong because she came over to check on me, or perhaps take my pulse (incidentally, a very smart thing to do to a person who has never tasted gin before in her life).

“Howar you doin’ there lass?” She asked, barely able to contain a smile.

“Is ver goo.” I spat, “But could you git me sim to wash i down wif.” Those are not typos. That is how I sounded after I took my second sip.

A few moments later she did not bring me water; instead, she opted for bringing me some seven up. I would not realize this until years later, but alcohol + sugar = not good. Or very good depending on how sloshed you want to get.

My very kind friend whom I no longer keep in touch with, snapped away and laughed and pointed as I finished the rest of the drink. Each gulp of gin was followed by a large gulp of sweet soda, and each gulp of soda was followed by an olive that did nothing more than explode a veritable tsunami of more gin in my mouth.

Before I knew it, it was time to go and as I stood up it took a full thirty seconds for the room to catch up with me. For the first time in my life I was afraid of a staircase. The entrance loomed before us like some great gateway to hell. The good thing is I could no longer feel the cold. Hell, I couldn’t even feel my legs. Now, New Yorkers are known for being a bit brash, but that night I put them all to shame. Everyone from the usher to the person outside selling the programs (of which I bought two) were my best friends.

Finally inside, we took our seats and to this day I can only recall the lifting of the heavy, red velvet curtain and a large chandelier. The rest of it is a blur. Sometime shortly before intermission I turned to my friend who was sitting on my left.

“I hafta pee.” I whispered loudly. The person to my right bristled.

“Intermission is in a few minutes. Can’t you wait?” She asked.

I stared at her for a full minute before saying, “Yes!”

I proceeded to sit like a small child trying like mad to keep her mind on everything but liquid, but before I even knew what I was doing I flew/ stumbled/ crawled across her lap in search of the restroom.

Suddenly, I found myself in a strange yellow hallway lined with identical doors. Which to choose, which to choose? I asked myself. I chose the one in the middle. Snow. There was snow on the landing and a brick wall across the way. I looked down to find myself on a scaffold. Wrong door, I thought.

Door number two proved to be equally useless. Again I found myself somewhere I shouldn’t be. How many fire escapes does one building need even?! In frustration I slammed the door shut. Now, there are two pieces of advice I will offer you if you ever see a beloved Broadway show: 1) Never drink so much you have to pee during the performance 2) Never ever slam a very heavy door during one of the most dramatic scenes in the play. The sound echoed for what seemed like eons and I could hear murmurs through the curtains just behind me. Luckily, when you’re as drunk as I was, you won’t care. I looked down the hall. Nothing. I looked up… ahhhh… something. A ladder. A ladder leading backstage…. A ladder that would take me to the quiet chaos of actors, extras and props. A ladder that would lead me to… the Phantom himself! I felt like I had just discovered the holy grail. Slowly, without the feeling of my legs, I glided towards those magic rungs. This was it, I was going to meet the Phantom, my Phantom.

My greedy fingers clasped the bottom rung and just as I prepared to pull myself up... a loud screeching from the actress who played Christine sounded from the stage and I was yanked out of my reverie.

The sudden urge to pee came forth tenfold and I knew that if I didn’t find a restroom I was going to have a bigger mess on my hands than even I could imagine. The thought alone of walking twelve blocks with urine quickly freezing to my pants was enough to slap me across the face and bring me back to the true mission at hand.

Somehow, I found the restrooms, relieved myself and by the time I was done the lobby was full to the brim with theatergoers; all five foot three of me blended in effortlessly. I found my friend who simply shook her head when she saw me. She grabbed my arm and we headed back towards our seats in spite of the protests I made as I pointed to the secret ladder behind the curtains. My second mission had failed. I would not meet the Phantom, and so I opted for trying desperately to focus on the rest of the play of which I cannot recall. After the show, my friend proceeded to tell me how I was making such a racket that I nearly ruined the show for everyone... including the actors.

Years later, as I sit here and take sips of my dirty martini which I have perfected over the years, I cannot help but feel pleased with myself. I may not remember anything but a glass prop from my most favorite of Broadway shows, but I’ll be damned if I don’t smile every time I drink a martini. To those people who were not drunk and actually trying to enjoy the show I nearly ruined, I offer my most sincere apologies. Sort of....