The Gin Game

I walked up to the John Golden Theatre box office determined. Rush tickets for this particular Broadway show were nonexistent. Patrons were flying in from all over the country to witness the majesty of two of the world’s greatest icons, legends of their craft. It was the closing week of D.L. Coburn’s The Gin Game starring James Earl Jones and the goddess that is and that was Cicely Tyson. I need tickets to that show.

A few years prior in June 2013, I participated in an acting intensive—SpringboardNYC—that introduces rising college seniors and recent graduates to the layered world of professional theatre making. Two magnificent components to the program were 1)free tickets to Broadway and Off-Broadway productions and 2)participating, as seat fillers, at the Tony Awards. That year, Cicely Tyson won her first ever Tony Award for her work in The Trip to Bountiful. Her tiny frame rose and glided from her seat to accept her award. It was only then that I realized she was sitting no more than 8 rows ahead of the seat I was filling. I gasped, sprang up from my seat to join the throngs of artists who have been enriched by her work.

3 days later, the program took us to see her in The Trip to Bountiful. Part of me is still somewhere in that theatre, balcony, center. I had never seen someone do what she did. She wasn’t acting, she wasn’t performing. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure if she knew the audience was even there until the curtain call. I witnessed someone living a life on stage and we, those who witnessed, were blessed enough to gain access to that life for a couple of hours. I couldn’t stop crying. She helped to remember that everything will be alright, if you keep the faith.

Fast forward two and a half years to January 2016. It’s closing week. Tickets are few. I wait for the next available teller. Walking up with all of my confidence and humility and nerves, I was ready to present my, then expired, Howard University student ID card and beg for what was left. I asked the woman if there were any tickets, any rush, anything. She must have seen, smelt and felt my desperation. I waited. She told me that the show, being in its late week suspended any rush tickets and any remaining tickets were few and likely to be very expensive. I almost walked away.

Faith kept me planted.

“What do you have?” I asked.

She searched the seating system. To this day, I don’t know if this theatre worker was taken by how adamant I was to experience Cicely on the stage again, alongside another hero in James Earl Jones. I think she was, and still is, a kind soul.

She said “I have a seat 3rd row center.”

I had saved enough money to travel back to NYC from where I was staying in DC at the time. I made the intention of treating myself. I bought a hotel room for a week. I went to museums, celebrated with friends, saw movies, thanked God for the time to just be. I was having a wonderful week in celebration of my 25 birthday. This woman, how I wish I knew her name, had no idea of any of this. She didn’t know I was banking on seeing the play as one of the major gifts to myself for reaching another year. If I remember correctly, those ticket prices started at $250 which I couldn’t have afforded if with my savings. Though the ticket was more expensive than a rush ticket and much more than many people who live in the same borough could afford, I was blessed to take her up on her offer.

I gathered myself and all of the emotions that fought their way forward. I asked her twice just to make sure I heard her clearly. I bought the ticket, more than likely treated myself to some meal in the city and waited anxiously to get back to the theatre to see my bonus grandparents, in my head, live a life on stage.

And they did.

As I meditate on this deed from a woman I may never see again and reflect on the life that was Cicely Tyson’s, the only phrase that comes to mind is: Thank You. For Cicely, I am but a wellspring of gratitude for a being who radiated the fullness of what life is. Its highs and lows, its immeasurable beauty, its grace, its character. She is with the ancestors and I thank her.

To the woman who I hope gets to work in a theatre again some day, I say thank you. You didn’t know my story and may have only seen the tip of the iceberg that was my thirst to witness the magic I was afforded to see. You represent but a portion of what I believe the theatre can be, what, day by day, each and every one of us has the potential to be and to do: spread goodness and kindness.

The show closed that Sunday on the day of my birthday, the evening I chose to take a bus back to DC. I closed my eyes just after midnight, immensely grateful for her small act.