And then there‘s the instant you didn’t realize might be a carpe
diem moment. And you drop the carp back into the river.
Scene: Michael’s Pub
in Manhattan, where Woody Allen played with his jazz band for years, circa
1974. Much more than a pub, it had fairly classy place settings, and offered a
full menu, beyond my resources for a weekday night.
But I wanted a glimpse of the live Woody Allen: was he really
quirky looking? How did he walk? Was he natural on stage?
So I glided unobstrusively into Michael’s at about 6 pm. and
stood, awkward and invisible, by the bar at the back. Too shy to snag a waiter
for a drink. Almost too shy to breathe.
Sure enough, a few minutes later he walked out in his marginally
slouchy pants, carrying his clarinet and nodding happy greetings to the
sprinkling of musicians. He proceeded to prepare the clarinet, clean it, test
the reed, tune it and so forth.
Then he glanced up and smiled at someone sitting behind me at
the bar. A big, broad, generous, humorous grin. I stared back. Then turned
around to check who he was smiling at.
There was no one there…no one. He was smiling at me.
Was I a suave young Manhattanite who would offer Woody a glass
of wine, or perhaps a ginger ale? Or laugh and wave back nonchalantly and
change my dinner plans?
No way. I was out of there so fast I almost fell.
Shortly after that, Diane Keaton, an exact contemporary of mine,
was doing all sorts of funny, silly, human, legendary roles.
No carp for me that day.
