An Eye For Details: One-Man Theatre of the Absurd
(October 2-8, 1998)

The curtain rises and Ryan enters an elevator, clutching a suitcase. As the elevator doors close, Ryan's fidgeting is exaggeratedly visible. The floor indicator lights above the doors chronicle the slow journey to the penthouse floor.

[SFX: The lub-dub of a heart beating becomes gradually more rapid and loud.]

The doors open and Ryan takes four steps forward and pauses. A spotlight is slowly trained upon him.

Ryan: My name is Ryan. I have flown from Vancouver to New York in search of love. Week before last, Friday to be exact, I faxed an article to Details magazine. It was about going to a party at Douglas Coupland's house, with a healthy emphasis on my continually unsuccessful search for love. The next day, I received a fax from an intern named Jennifer. She was smitten with me. She had visited my Website, saw my Win-A-Date-With-Ryan contest and faxed an entry. She was so bold as to invite me to New York. But flying to New York for a blind date?

Well if that isn't the craziest notion I'd ever entertained. My first reaction was to politely decline, but after talking with friends, who thought this might be the impulsive kick-start my romantic life needed, I started to think different.

I phoned Jennifer up and we talked for awhile. We both were excited by the idea.

Still, I hesitated, but only for a little while. Regret is a terrible thing, I've learned, so I decided that this would be a chance to remove at least one regret from that great big pile I'd accumulated. So I threw caution and rent money to the wind and bought a ticket to the Big Apple. Scarcely a week after receiving that fated fax, I'm standing in the lobby of Details magazine.

The lights dim. Scenery shifts to a typical 20-something "alternative" bar. Ryan is sitting on a bar stool.

[SFX: Clinking of glasses, loud rock music, the hum of 12 simultaneous conversations.]

Ryan: Hi. You just missed Jennifer. She's in the washroom. Our initial encounter at Details went well enough, I suppose. We went for lunch, and conversation was a bit strained, but nothing serious. Nothing I haven't encountered before. Nothing I can't overcome. Jennifer described herself in an e-mail as having the looks of Elizabeth Shue, the mannerisms of Diane Keaton, and the body of Elle MacPherson. I'm not sure if I'll get an opportunity to confirm the supermodel part and or parts, but Jennifer is certainly quite attractive. Unfortunately, the chemistry between us seems to be a bit lacking. She seemed a lot more playful on the phone and in her e-mails. Perhaps the idea of me flying out to New York was slightly more exciting than it actually happening. Anticipation is the best part.

So where does that leave us? Well, I can't help but notice that we're both watching a lot of TV in between attempts to continue conversations that seem to stop and start. Despite a common interest in music, the kindling is not reacting to sparks.

Since Jennifer was a bit stand-offish at first, and this is by her own admission, I felt self-conscious and hesitant around her. Which meant that the persona that she had seen on the Website isn't surfacing that often. I'm playing a pretty tough crowd here. One of my favourite laugh-getting stories generated barely a smile.

I should have flown out for the weekend, but I got greedy. This seemed like a sure thing, a meeting of soulmates. Meetings behind closed doors. Frequent meetings.

Now it's looking like I'll be sleepless in New York.

Superimposed upon the black backdrop is a moon and the stars. It remains there for a few seconds before slowly crossfading into a sunshine with an unhappy face on it. Ryan is now sitting at a café-style table, complete with umbrella.

[SFX: Pedestrian and street traffic.]

Ryan: This is the price I pay for being a slow eater. Jennifer and her roommate Mary left to do some laundry and I'll be off to sightsee once I finish this cup of overpriced coffee.

It's a shame you didn't get a chance to meet Mary. She's a music publicist. A shrill, chain-smoking, nit-picking 30-something woman that still has the box her drink coasters came in, and prefers that they remain in said box when not in use. Try as I might to ingratiate myself with Mary, I can tell she's not buying it.

In other developments, I'm getting the feeling that Jennifer has yet to tell Mary that I'm scheduled to stay a week. As far as Mary is concerned, I'm only staying until Sunday. Not Sunday night. Sun day. And it's up to me to try to convince her otherwise, since Jennifer seems loathe to endanger her current living arrangements, which offers low rent in an expensive apartment, in exchange for feeding Mary's ego.

Ryan gets up from the table and starts walking along the black backdrop, where pictures of Central Park and the Statue of Liberty are being slowly flashed, forming a montage of famous New York sights. The lights eventually dim to the strains of Paul Simon's "American Tune." The lights remain dim, but a weak spotlight is trained upon Ryan who is wearing a leather jacket. Loud rock music slowly fades in and out.

Ryan: When Jennifer invited me to New York, she said we'd go see Sloan as our big date. So far, it's resembling a date only inasmuch we're both acting nervous, weird and awkward. Jennifer is over there, talking with her big-shot friends from Details. Before we parted ways, she said that She was sorry that things weren't working out and She hoped I'd still enjoy my trip. I may never figure out how I was supposed to have responded to that.

[SFX: Heart breaking.]

Another moon and sunshine on the black backdrop. Ryan is sitting on a pink vinyl loveseat. On stage is a door, and above the door is a flickering exit sign.

Ryan: It's Sunday night already. Mary and Jennifer are in the kitchen, making dinner. I just got back from hanging out with Sara, a zinester friend of a friend who lives in uptown Manhattan. She said that her place was a closet, otherwise I would be welcome. I still have another option though. Sara's friend Nathan, who I met once in Seattle, has a warehouse space in Brooklyn that I could crash at. I'm a bit leery however, since the last four digits of Nathan's phone number spell D-I-V-E. As well, Sara mentioned that his power and water keep getting cut off, since it's illegal to live there.

The good thing, though, if this can be a good thing, is that I'm escaping from New York tomorrow, so where ever I end up staying, it'll only be for one more night. Tomorrow, at 7:30pm, I'll be catching a Greyhound to Toronto and staying with my buddy Jim. It'll give me a few days to lick my wounds before flying back home.

Once I build up some courage, I'll go talk with Mary about extending my stay of execution.

Fade out. The black backdrop now has a bus terminal waiting area superimposed upon it. Ryan is sitting on an uncomfortable-looking chair. The sounds of people waiting for the bus are in the background.

Ryan: I keep thinking back to last night. For five minutes I sat in that ugly pink loveseat, ironically named I can assure you, and stared at the fire exit sign above the front door of the apartment. I kept thinking what an obvious device this would be, if it weren't actually happening. For one brief moment, while staring at that exit sign, waiting to talk to Mary, I had convinced myself that this wasn't actually happening. That this was all a dream.

I took a deep breath and walked down the hall, and gave the performance of a lifetime. It was, in equal parts, powerful, dignified and pathetic and it bought me a final night in the guestroom of Casa Love. Method acting paid off, since reaching within deep myself to play a desperate single man really wasn't that difficult.

Now, I wait. I slept in so as to avoid seeing Jennifer this morning. Then I bought my ticket and dropped off my bags at Port Authority Bus Terminal and wandered over to Times Square.

I was in awe. Despite being Disney-fied, this monument to capitalism still generates reverence, whatever your political leanings. If you can't find a way to love the grotesqueness, it will destroy you.

I also walked by the Ed Sullivan Theatre and I spent some time in boring, boring Macys. I went up the Empire State Building and I went down to Greenwich Village.

I'm expecting lots from this bus ride. Certainly not good service, but I am hoping that the ten-and-a-half-hour trip will yield some worthy incidents and stories. I base this partly on the backhandedly romantic description of riding the Greyhound David Sedaris created in his book Naked.

I'm not sure what I think of New York. I came here, my head buzzing with preconceived notions. New York is so imbued with stereotypes, so demonised, so praised, so larger than life, so, well, so everything, that describing my impression of the city is tough. New York is a true or false questionnaire where both answers are correct, in turns simultaneously and alternately. The taxis, the congestion, the hot dog vendors, the stink, the grim, the subway will ring in my head for the next few hours. Perhaps longer.

[SFX: Bus to Toronto now boarding at Gate 28.]

Ryan stands up. His eyes are glistening. He dabs at them with a handkerchief for a moment.

[SFX: Bus to Toronto now boarding at Gate 28.]

Ryan begins walking towards the gate, but pauses. Without warning, he kicks over a garbage can and laughs a bitter laugh.

Ryan: Ha-ha. Goodbye New York. Goodbye Jennifer.

Ryan begins to cry. He walks to the very edge of the stage.

Ryan: Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye regret.

Curtain lowers. Audience commences standing ovation.