Rachel Crothers is something like the Edna Ferber of
playwrights: wildly popular in her day, she’s barely remembered now. But that
hasn’t stopped The Mint Theater Company from attempting to perform CPR on her
reputation, first in 2006 with a revival of her Susan and God, and now with a
glittering production of her 1918 play, A
Little Journey, which has gone unseen since its original, Pulitzer
Prize-nominated production.

—

For the first two-thirds of A Little Journey, one happily settles into the play, wondering why
Crothers fell out of favor (though other than Eugene O’Neill, what playwright from
the era is still regularly performed?). Startling modern in its attitudes
towards racism and feminism, Crothers’ play follows the poverty-stricken Julie
Rutherford on a train trip from New York City to the Pacific Coast, and the
band of fellow travelers who entertain and annoy her. Forced to accept the
largesse of stranger Jim West in order to continue on her trip, Julie is drawn
to the fiercely idealistic man, who resembles nothing less than a proto-type of
Will Rogers (instead of never meeting a man he didn’t like, Jim insists there’s
no such animal as a stranger).

Along for the ride are a cheerily deaf grandmother, her
young granddaughter, two college men, a pants salesman, a single mother and her
baby and the brassy, blowsy Mrs. Welch, who loudly and airily orders the porter
about in between whispering how “they” all steal. Their sweetly gentle enforced
camaraderie is sometimes shot through with pointed whispers (Mrs. Welch thinks
that Julie is getting entirely too comfortable with Jim), but Crothers never
loses her gimlet eye for what happens to strangers who are forced to share
cramped quarters for several days—until the end of the second act, which
abruptly changes course.

The third act is a far cry in both tone and content from the
first two, and Crothers suddenly reveals a taste for the obvious and a simple-minded
religiosity that director Jackson Gray and his 21st-century cast can’t quite
make work (if indeed it ever did). Until the sudden switch, Gray masterfully
brought out the cadences of the period with today’s attitudes, smoothing over
the rough spots with sparkling performances (and the merry-go-round set from
Roger Hanna is a consistent delight). The supporting cast are all blissful
oddballs, from Laurie Birmingham’s imperious Mrs. Welch to Craig Wroe’s genial
chatterbox of a salesman and Rosemary Prinz’s chirpy, birdlike turn as the deaf
Mrs. Bay. As Julie and Jim, Samantha Soule and McCaleb Burnett have the burden
of the play’s weightiest passages on their shoulders, in terms of both length
and depth, but both find the damaged souls of the characters beneath their
high-handed conversations.

Until the final moments, A
Little Journey goes a long way to reminding today’s theatergoers that the
theater didn’t skip from Shakespeare to Tennessee Williams, and that there’s a
whole treasure trove of undiscovered gems still glinting through the layers of
dust that have accumulated over the years (and hey, Mint, whither the plays of
Philip Barry?). That things derail to some extent can be partially blamed on
the changing tastes and attitudes of modern audiences, but even we, who seem to
prefer loud and fast to thoughtful and contemplative, can appreciate the craftsmanship
that distinguishes most of Crothers’ play—and all of this production.

A Little Journey

Through July 17, Mint Theater, 311 W. 43rd St. (betw. 8th
& 9th Aves.), www.ovationtix.com;
$55.

In this city of eight million-plus people, there are certain rules by which we must abide in order to preserve our sanity. Take the subway for instance, those mobile zoos of human exhibition. The unofficial MTA code of conduct states that one must not maintain unnecessary eye contact (lest you unwittingly imply you’re in need of a new dance partner); one must not peruse another passenger’s reading material, even if it features naked people; one must not graze elbows or any other body parts; and one must not converse with other riders (particularly not about their aforementioned lurid reading material). But one man has found a way to quietly connect with his fellow New Yorkers, bypassing convention without breaking any rules.



Cully Long is a theater set designer by day and a subway sketch artist by night. With his moleskine sketchbook and ballpoint pen, 34-year-old Long boards the A Train at 59th Street and settles in for an interrupted ride up to 125th.

Along the way, he draws whoever is seated near him. He’s not choosy, so Long’s sketches reveal a social equality present on the subway, despite its absence in the greater city. “Everybody in NYC, from the mayor down to the homeless, rides the train,” says Long, “So if you’re looking at these people, I think you can’t help but wonder about everybody else’s life … who these people are, where they’re going, why they’re wearing that particular thing.”



There is a paradox implicit in Long’s work between the traditionally intimate act of drawing a subject and the fact that his subjects are strangers on a train. Long is a voyeur: While riders sit armed with iPods or sometimes asleep, he privately observes, covertly getting to know them. “I’ve never once spoken in any way to anyone that I’ve drawn,” Long explains, “People just get too insular on the subway and they don’t really pay attention to what’s happening.”



His work evokes that haunting feeling of loneliness in crowds. The majority of Long’s sketches are of isolated individuals, candid moments of oblivion or reflection. When he does draw multiple figures, they are often unrelated, either unaware of the other’s presence or just indifferent to the crush of humanity around them.



And somehow this isolation feels more natural than direct interaction. Though the formal signs of an artistic education are present in Long’s drawings (he has a degree in illustration from the School of Visual Arts), they also possess a casual, unstilted quality—something lacking in today’s high tech world of super polished imagery. We live in a state of immediacy, where fleeting moments can quickly be captured with a camera phone and disseminated online. But Long says his unstaged portraits are more personal than a snapshot, “I can look back on my subject and remember very specific details about how they were moving, whether they were nervous … but I don’t think I could remember that if I had only observed them for a brief second through a camera lens.” In some ways, Long is old-fashioned—managing to slow the information age, if only for a moment, before he posts his sketches to his blog.

“Here’s something I’d like to see—Gypsy dancers from Paris. Performing to, like, hip-hop and gypsy music—would you like to see that?”

“Mmm,” her boyfriend said.

I’d grabbed the last available seat on the Brooklyn-bound train. Next to me was a couple in their mid-20s. He was trying to read something, and she had the latest issue of New York magazine open on her lap. 

I’d opened my bag and started reaching for some reading material of my own, but the moment I heard her voice, I retracted my hand and closed the bag. Wasn’t going to be any reading going on with her around, I had a feeling.

“Tickets are $45, can you believe it?” she said.

“Mmm,” he replied.

“Well I’d still like to see it. What about this? It’s called “Ultraviolet,’ and it’s an exhibit of neon art by some of the Warhol Factory people.”

“Not really.”

“Yeah. I don’t know any of them. Oh look—Brian’s show didn’t get a star.”

“It shouldn’t have—it wasn’t very good.”

“They should’ve given him more room. It was such a small gallery. They could’ve put him in the bigger room up front or something. Someplace bigger. Not that little space”

“I didn’t like the wings.”

“The wings? Yeah. I’ve seen that before, haven’t you? I liked that other thing, though.  He’s a traditional video artist. Some of it was interesting.”

‘Not the wings.”

He continued trying to read, and she turned the page of her magazine. “People love that Sweeny Todd,” she said.

She turned another page. “I went to see that Arcade.”

It was becoming less and less clear if she was actually trying to communicate with her boyfriend—or anyone for that matter—or if she suffered from some crippling brain disease which forced her to utter aloud whatever random phrase happens to enter her head. It seems to be an affliction endemic to people who ride in the same subway as me. 

Slowly I could feel the anger beginning to well up and burn inside me. 

The train rattled under the river toward York Street.

“I think Gray’s Anatomy just jumped the shark. Or is jumping the shark or something.”

“Hmm?”

“Did you ever hear that on The Howard Stern Show? ‘Jumping the shark’? It means that point when a show gets bad.”

“Oh.”

“I think Gray’s Anatomy is doing it now.”

“Yeah,” her boyfriend said, no longer bothering to look up from his book. It got weird.”

She turned the page of her magazine again. 

“Jessica Simpson has a $35 million contract. Can you believe that?”

“Really?”

“I want to see The Office DVD set. The British one, not the American one.”

“Yeah,” he said, “it’s so rich.” I couldn’t tell if he was being snide or not.

Quietly, the idea began to form in my head. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself reaching over and gently removing the magazine from her clutches. Then I would lay it on my own lap and place my arms across it. I would hold onto it that way, without saying a word, until they reached their stop. I just wanted her to shut the hell up. I got the impression that her boyfriend did, too.

I didn’t grab the magazine, of course. I think that would’ve been a disastrous mistake. Instead, I reached into my bag and pulled out my pen and notebook.

Together they represented so much, so much of what was wrong. You could even say they were a caricature of what was wrong, and they left me feeling, somehow, like a minor character in American Psycho.

I opened the notebook and began to transcribe everything I was hearing. 

The train pulled into the Fourth Avenue stop. The two of them gathered their things together and stood. I breathed a small sigh of relief, but continued writing as they finally stepped off the train, New York magazine clutched protectively to her chest. She still had so many pages to look at. 

Perhaps it was a rude thing of me to do, but “rude” doesn’t seem to much matter to people who are that oblivious and that empty.

I was a little drained from the encounter by the time we reached my stop, so I popped into the grocery store. Lord, how I needed more beer. And some mustard. 

I brought them to the checkout and set them down on the belt.

“I like your Indiana Jones hat,” the cashier said as she rang everything up. I  couldn’t recall if I had seen her in there before or not. There’s such a turnover.

I felt a little twinge as I searched for the proper bills. It wasn’t an Indiana Jones hat. Not even close. At least that wasn’t as bad as the people who call it a cowboy hat. Jesus. Still, I’ve seen plenty of people around wearing Indian Jones hats. Most of the people who do, I’ve found, tend to have beards and tend to be jerks. I didn’t like being associated with them.

“Thanks,” I said. There was no point in bringing any of this up with the cashier.

“You hear he’s making a fourth one?” she asked.

I presumed she was talking about Harrison Ford making a fourth Indiana Jones film.

“Yeah, I did hear that,” I said. “I dunno, it just seems a little…”

“Yeah, right? He too old for that. But he still wants to go out and be like this big action hero.” She shook her head as handed me my change. “You see his new one yet?”

“No, uh-uh.”

“Well you see the commercial, you know what’s gonna happen, you know? He gonna save his family and kill all the bad guys.”

“Hasn’t he made that movie already?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s the only movie he ever makes.”

The simple truth of it gave me a much-needed chuckle. I thanked her, grabbed my beer and went home. The couple on the subway was fast becoming a memory. 

A little past nine a.m. in the waiting room of the Albuquerque Amtrak station. Taking the long
way back to Los Angeles and then Santa Maria to cover the Michael Jackson trial. Spent the weekend
in New Mexico visiting an old girlfriend. She made me sleep on the couch.

Uncomfortable plastic chairs, vending machines, loudspeaker croaking
departure times to the few indifferent waiting passengers, most of whom are half-asleep. The usual
Amtrak biosphere. Being New Mexico, the only thing different is that the worthless souvenir knick-knacks
are sold by Pueblos.

I’m just about to lift a cup of coffee to my lips when a finger taps me on
the shoulder. A sleazy-looking white woman in her 50s is standing before me. She looks like an Anne
Klein senior-wear model escaped from a methadone clinic, but incongruously has her hair in a little
girl’s pigtails.

“Excuse me, mister,” she says. “My daddy’s cell phone is broken. Could
my daddy use your cell phone? My daddy only needs it for a minute.”

At that moment a man roughly the same age as this “girl” steps forward.
He is wearing an absurd, clearly fake Pinochet-style pencil moustache, and his skin looks to be
covered in shoe polish. The polish has been applied unevenly, and his face is dark in spots, light
in others. He is wearing a cheap souvenir sombrero.

“Good morning,” he says. “My name is Carlos Vasquez. This is my daughter,
Lucy. We are traveling together and we must call Mommy at home. My phone, as you can see, is broken.
We wondered if the good señor would let us use his.”

As he delivered this speech in an unevenly delivered Spanish accent,
he briefly produced the “broken” cell phone from his pants pocket, then quickly returned it before
I could get a good look.

I paused. The sensible thing to do, of course, would probably have been
to get up and soak the both of these characters with a fire extinguisher. But it was clear they had
put a lot of thought into this performance, and I was curious. I handed over the cell phone.

“Gracias, señor,” the man said. Then, turning his back to me,
he began dialing.

I craned my head to listen. He glanced over his shoulder, saw that I was
listening, and then moved several steps away, as if to give himself some privacy. That only prompted
me to move forward a few steps, too. He sighed and dialed.

“Mr. Jennings?” he said. “This is Carlos. Yes, that Carlos. You’d better
hope there are no police on this line. Now, we want what we want, at the drop we agreed on—and
no fucking around this time.”

I shook my head and raced around to face him. “Hey,” I said, grabbing for
the phone. “What the—”

“We’ll be sending you proof of life in the next twelve hours,” he said,
pulling away from me. “One million dollars in unsequenced bills, you hear me? Otherwise, your little
wifey is going to take a very long nap.”

“Give me that phone,” I said, grabbing his wrist.

“I have to go now, Mr. Jennings,” he said into the receiver. “I’ll call
again!”

“Give me that!” I shouted.

“Fuck off!” he said, the Spanish accent now completely gone.

We struggled for a moment, and finally I pried the phone free. As we wrestled,
something fell out of his pocket right at my feet. I looked down. It was a human finger. I picked it
up…

“I’ll take that,” he said, snatching it away from me and returning it
to his pocket.

“You’re kidnappers!” I said.

“Well, not exactly,” he said. “We’re trying to be kidnappers.
Hasn’t really worked out too well.”

“Yeah, we botched the first job,” said Lucy. “We were cruising through
Georgia and we picked up this chick in a wedding dress. Daddy says to me, ‘I bet she’s in a hurry. Somebody
will pay a pretty penny for that little filly.’ So we pick her up and drive her to New Mexico. Throw
her in the trunk, she’s moaning the whole time. We’re getting the ransom demand ready when she gets
away and makes this phone call. Next thing you know…”

“The whole country knows about it,” says Carlos. “Turns out this chick
was actually running away from her wedding, not to it. Anyway, when she tells the story to
the police, they don’t believe her. Which is good for us, I guess, ’cause nobody’s looking for us.
Still…”

“No money,” says Lucy. “A total fucking waste.”

I stare at Carlos. Something about him is familiar. “What’s with your
disguise? It’s pathetic. I mean, you’re obviously not Mexican…”

He shrugs. “Yeah, we’re still working on that,” he says. He reaches up
and pulls off his moustache. “We tried a black-guy outfit first, but I couldn’t figure out how to
keep the hair combed.”

I stared. It took about 10 seconds. I pointed at him.

“Hey, you’re Tom Delay!” I said. “I knew your voice was familiar!”

He smiled. “Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “This is my
wife, Christine.”

“Howdy,” said Lucy, undoing her pigtails.

“Wow, so you’re Christine Delay,” I said. “Haven’t you been
embezzling money from your husband’s campaign committee for like four years? Didn’t I read—it
was $180,000 or something, right?”

“More like a buck-ninety,” she said. “And we’re not calling it embezzling
yet.”

“We’re not convicted,” said Carlos.

I shook my head, flabbergasted. “Okay—but what the hell are you
two doing racing around the South kidnapping people? Are you out of your minds?”

“Well, we looked at the numbers,” said Christine.

“There’s good money in kidnapping,” agreed Tom.

“And there’s no paper trail,” his wife added. “If you do it right.”

I kneaded my forehead with both hands. “Jesus Christ, you two,” I said.
“You’re both crazy. And whose finger was that? What have you done?”

“Oh, that wasn’t a real finger,” Tom laughed.

“Dude,” I said. “That was totally a real human finger!”

“Uh, no it wasn’t,” he said, looking off to the side.

“Let me see,” I said, reaching for his pocket.

“No,” he said, backing away.

“Gimme,” I said.

“Fuck off,” he whispered.

As we struggled, Christine suddenly jumped in and tapped Tom’s shoulder.
“Honey-bumpkins,” she whispered. “Four o’clock.”

We both whipped around. Four policemen were advancing rapidly. Overjoyed,
I reached for Tom to detain him—but he was gone, running the other way.

“You’ll never get away with this!” I shouted.

The police rushed up to me, grabbing me from behind.

“Officers,” I said. “They went that-a-way!”

They ignored me. One reached into my pocket, produced my cell phone,
checked the call register.

“It’s our guy,” said the one to the others. “He’s the one.”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” I protested. Then I tried to explain the whole
thing—the Hispanic disguise, the congressional misappropriations, the tie-in to the
runaway bride story, the upcoming ethics committee hearing, and, in sum, the larger issue of the
Republican culture of greed.

“Trust me,” I said. “I’m a journalist. I know what I’m talking about.
It was Tom Delay—it all fits!”

A cop was looking through my wallet. “What kind of name is Taibbi, anyway?”

And they led me away.