Oscar E Moore

Did he say he was from New Canaan or New Haven?  I really can’t remember.  It’s been quite a long time that I cared to speak to someone while minding my own business sitting on a bench in Washington Square Park.

But that beautiful and peaceful day – that day with the clear blue sky and bright sunshine and soft winds that rid my boggled down mind of all that bothered me somehow seemed special.

I hardly noticed him at first.  It was just a low constant mumbling that I heard coming from the nearby bench where he sat with a book open that he constantly kept referring to.  That was what caught my attention.  The book.

And speaking softly to himself.  Gesturing throughout.  I must admit that I kept peeking over to see what this guy was up to.  Attempting to do so without him noticing me doing so.  Squinting and turning my head oh so slowly so that I could read the title on the spine of his book.  Which surprised me.  Long Day’s Journey into Night.  A play.  A classic.  By Eugene O’Neill.

I would have imagined, from his looks and age (about 25) that he would be more likely to be reading a comedy by Neil Simon.  It was his nose.  A prominent nose.  A good looking, classic Barrymore nose.  On an average looking face.  Dark hair.  With excellent concentration.  Not paying any attention to my eavesdropping and unobtrusive glances one bit.  Or so I thought.

I always notice two things about a person.  Their nose.  And their feet.  The nose I have described.  The feet were covered by a pair of well-worn classic Converse high tops.  At least that’s what we called them way back when.

So, my mysterious mumbler had me completely intrigued.  I have a problem hearing.  I admit.  I couldn’t actually hear the words (he was going at a rapid rate) but they seemed important.

It was at that point that he took a swallow of water from his requisite backpack supply and spoke.  Looking directly at me.  I was caught.

“I’m working on a monologue.  I hope I haven’t bothered you with my memorization methods.  It’s for tomorrow.  I need to do this presentation perfectly and so I go over and over and over.”  Said matter-of-factly as if we were the best of friends.  No pretense.  Said simply. I liked him immediately.  Connected with him just like that.

“I used to be an actor.”  I replied as simply as I could.

Suddenly a flood of memories was overflowing out of my mind and into my mouth.  And before I could continue, he was just as intrigued with me as I was with him.  But I was caught up in my past.

There I was sitting on the floor of my rented room from Mr. and Mrs. Cabble on Green Grove Avenue with that infamous red telephone booth at the corner of the street (where I made many calls and cashed in, as every once in a while coins would just flow out of its slot when I disconnected after being asked to deposit a coin to continue) right off the Hofstra College (before it became a University) campus in Uniondale, Long Island where I was speaking aloud with an assumed British accent attempting to learn my lines for a production of The Rivals by Sheridan.  My first part.  Over and over and over…

“Movies?  TV? Soaps?  The mumbler asked, suddenly alert and interested in me.

“Theater.  The stage.  Summer stock.”

“Oh, what was your favorite role?”

Interrupting my memory.  “I had quite a few favorites.  But my all-time favorite was and still is Gaston in Waltz of the Toreadors by Jean Anouilh.  No reaction.  “So, you are a theater student at NYU.”

“I wanted to go to Northwestern.”

“So did I but I wound up at Hofstra with a full scholarship and so I jumped on it.”

“So did I when NYU accepted me into their program.”

“What’s your name.”

“Silas.”

“Silas.  Like in Marner.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m Oscar.”  I don’t know why I asked but I did.  “Could I share a few thoughts with you?  I didn’t wait for an answer but plowed right ahead.  “Slow down.  Don’t rush.  Try to make the dialogue sound as if you just thought of the words.  And believe them wholeheartedly.  And make sure they hear you.  Each word.  It seems now that diction and projection aren’t taught anymore.  They are very important Silas.  And break a leg!”

“Well, I must be off.  Thanks for the tips.  I’ll think about them as he gathered his backpack.

“Nice to meet you.”  We shook hands and he departed.

Break a leg!  Such an odd and old theatrical expression for good luck.  Still works, I hoped.  For Silas’ sake.

Next day I went back to that very same spot, thinking I would see Silas and he would give me an update as to how the monologue went.  I was truly interested to have him share this experience with me.

Only someone had left the remnants of a half-eaten blueberry muffin with some purple cream oozing from its top on the bench but there was still plenty of room for me to sit there without worrying that anyone else would sit next to me.  I waited.  I observed.  I had a weird assortment of people and pigeons pass me by.  But no well-worn Converse high top sneakers showed up.

At least I had a new routine. To follow.  To keep me busy.  Something to look forward to.  So, for the next few days there I sat.  Waiting and observing.  With what remained of that melted muffin to keep me company.  Apparently, pigeons will eat anything available.

Suddenly, I thought that I had imagined this entire episode with Silas. Had I been so bored with inactivity that my imagination took complete control of my reality?  Or maybe “the mumbler” thought I was just some busy-body, lonely old pervert.  I hate to think that.  I would hate for anyone to think that of me.  Especially Silas.

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