The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

Eurydice closes tonight, so this will be my final entry as a guest blogger for The Rake. Thanks to them for inviting me to do this, and thanks to all of you who took the time to read of these adventures.

TTT is well into its second decade, but until now its work has never been seen outside the Twin Cities. Eurydice is a landmark because, for the first time, the show is playing a tour date: Bemidji! A four-hour drive up on Monday, a public performance Monday night followed by a very early high school performance the next morning. But in between... Michelle Hensley tells us that we're staying at the Palace Casino Hotel, and the senses of the company swim! Booze! Gambling! Adjoining rooms! One night only! Let the bacchanalia begin, baby—Ten Thousand Things is off the leash!

All through rehearsals and the first week of performances, people start making plans: Is there a hot-tub? How much gambling money are people bringing? Who's rooming with whom? Now there's a thought—some pretty dishy people in the cast, and as we've all been slyly saying to each other so often it's become our mantra of immorality: What happens in Bemidji, stays in Bemidji. I wind up with musical genius Peter Vitale as my roommate. Peter is the second-oldest man in the company and a father like me and I sniff a faint whiff of fogey-dom collecting around my ankles.

Michelle asks if anybody wants to carpool with her, and I jump at the offer. There's no way I can get lost if I'm riding with the artistic director, and since there's bound to be another person along I can probably stretch out in back and snooze most of the way. Oh, this trip is shaping up nicely! No driving up or back, only two performances and a night of rich and exotic promise. I briefly ponder packing my tuxedo. I mean, we're gonna be right next to a casino, dude—what red-blooded American male hasn't wanted to sit at a chemin de fir table in black tie, casually flipping cards and suavely purring "Banco" and "Suivi" to the dealer while raking in piles of chips as eye-patched Largo scowls and darkly fingers his SPECTRE octopus ring. The crowd murmurs in French and elegantly gowned/coifed women gaze with longing. The problem is I don't actually know how to play chemin de fir and don't know the French phrase for "I just lost my wife's 401K." So I decide to keep it casual.

The first bat-squeak of disillusionment arrives in an email from one of the company. The Palace Casino Hotel is alcohol-free. It says so on the website. In fact, it SCREAMS so on the website. I suffer a momentary neural shutdown and stare at the screen. I see the word casino and then, very close to it, the words alcohol-free. Casino. Alcohol-free. These words can't be so close together. They hate each other! How do you operate a casino without serving liquor? Isn't that how casinos work? Yeah, I vaguely understand enough of the math to know that the house will always beat you in the end, but isn't it the free vodka martinis, shaken or stirred, that keep you at the table in a pleasant buzz, losing track of time, tossing $100 chips onto the baize like Famous Amos cookies until the odds catch up with you and you stagger back to your comped hotel room with nothing but lint and ATM slips in your pocket?

The second ominous piece of news arrives the Sunday before we leave. There's no second passenger in Michelle's car! We're riding up together, she and I, alone. Now, one might think it odd that the prospect of spending four hours alone in a car with a woman who has directed me in 5 or 6 TTT productions would unnerve me, but it really does. Michelle is, well, ultra- — ultra-talented, ultra-kind, ultra-generous, ultra-passionate, and most important in this context, ultra, ultra-intelligent and ultra, ultra, ultra-intimidating. She went to Princeton and has won lots of awards and is writing a book and ran this company alone with her bare hands for five years at least. She's far better-read than I am, more articulate and opinionated on current events and politics, and I have no idea what we're going to talk about! Not that I'm a dunce, but I am definitely a Watson to her Holmes, as I am to many writers and directors. I'm a guy of average intelligence who happens to be able to do this one weird thing, acting, fairly well. And for that I get to spend many of my working days with lots of hyper-intelligent people with whom I have learned to mostly keep my mouth shut and listen.

Have you ever spent a night in a bar with a group of writers, dramaturgs, and directors from the Playwright's Center? The wit, the banter, the telling observations zip by like Bob Feller fastballs. It's flipping intimidating is what it is, and once settled in the car I figure the best remedy is to acknowledge my anxiety and confide in Michelle straight up. "Michelle, I'm frankly very nervous about spending four hours in this car with you and boring you silly." Michelle's eyes widen, "Really? Why?" and the next thing I know we're stopping for lunch, and then the next thing I know we're in Bemidji. The art of a great conversationalist is being able to effortlessly make a lesser conversationalist feel like a great conversationalist. Michelle is a ultra-great conversationalist. I never felt a thing. It turns out we both travelled this route as children en route to family lake cabins. We recall being packed in the car the night before and waking up on the road, watching the hypnotic linear dance of the overhead telephone wires as the car speeds northward. It's surprising to discover such pleasant, kindred memories with Michelle. That and the fact that she's addicted to The Wire, same as me.

We're the first to arrive at the Palace Hotel, and we have about two hours before our 5:30 call at the theatre. I'm dying for a nap and don't even glance at the hallway leading to the casino as I find my room and collapse. Peter Vitale comes in at some point — I don't even hear him. I do hear my cell phone ringing, though, only minutes, it seems, after I put my head to the pillow. It's Nancy Waldoch, our SM, letting us know there's been a mix-up and our audience thinks our performance is starting at 6 p.m. instead of 6:30, so we need to get a move on now.

Still fuzzy with sleep, we grab our costume bags, stumble into cars, and head to the Wild Rose Theater in Bemidji. The Wild Rose is housed in the Bemidji Masonic Temple Meeting Hall, which happens to be the perfect shape for your stadium-style seating arrangement. Our audience is a melange of local arts patrons, college students, and occupants of Bemidji Battered Women's and Homeless Shelters.

For the most part they are quite attentive, although someone has brought along a small boy who starts wandering in and out, and Michelle gallantly takes it upon herself to distract him in the lobby with cookies, cider and, for ought I know, duct tape.

The performance goes well, but I think I speak for everybody when I say that a certain small percentage of our attention was focused on our post-show activities: where will we eat, and more importantly, where will we drink? During the post-show load-out of our set, Vera Mariner succinctly summarized our concerns when she said, "God, if they don't have beer, I will tear my eyes out!"

On recommendations from some of our audience, we are directed to the local Green Mill Pizzeria just a few blocks away. We walk in the door and instantly our anxieties are soothed. Not crowded, a table big enough to seat all eight of us, Stevie Wonder and other golden oldies on the juke and, like an oasis in the desert, a full bar!

Our waiter, Jake, appears and, like a good sheep-dog, immediately gathers us into his fold. On second thought, sheep-dog isn't the best description for Jake. He's more of a St. Bernard — big, friendly, and with a small keg of ale strapped to his collar. Jake, the bringer of menus, hearty, funny (really) quips and libations. O, Jake! Hear our prayers and deliver unto us Margaritas, Manhattans, foaming beakers of ale and Martinis very dry! And even as we spoke, it was so! Drinks, they did appear, and appetizers neatly arrayed on plates of finest porcelain. I personally recommend the deep-fried green beans. Every time Jake appears, he's making us laugh a little harder. Sonja announces she wants to marry him. The entrees arrive and we keep the conversation going with Jake. He's become our best friend. We wish he could sit with us, but instead ask him about his life. Jake's going to Boston! Cool! Boston is one of my favorite towns! Why, Jake? Why Boston? To be with a friend of his who's moving out to study bass guitar at the Berklee School of Music.

"Wow," we say! "He mush be good, Jake, whash his name?" (by now we are all pleasantly buzzed, even me and I don't drink. I just soak it up by osmosis)

"Jake." says Jake."

"No, thash your name, Jake. "Whash his name?"

"Jake." says Jake."

"What, there're two Jakes? Two Jakes in Bemishee, besht friends and both goin'a Boshton? Thassha story! Wish we could meet t'other Jake, Jake!"

"Well, he's sitting over at the bar. Would you like to hear him play some guitar?"

"Would we? Would we!? FUCK YEAH!!"

Two minutes later Jake 2.0 is at our table with his acoustic six-string, playing us some marvelous R&B. Like Jake 1.0, Jake 2.0 is a large, jolly guy, genuinely friendly and genuinely talented (you gotta have some musical chops to get into Berklee). He's fabulous and gives me, at least, what Spalding Gray described as "the perfect moment" — the moment that defines an entire experience for you.

Jake 2.0's full name is Jake Jackson and you can listen to his music at his website. Do. Let's do what we can to encourage and support our home-grown artists. Like Brad Bird says in Ratatouille, "Anyone can't be an artist, but an artist can come from anywhere." Hibbing, MN produced a young man named Dylan, and it just may be that Bemidji comes to be known as the hometown of Jackson. The two Jakes sent us back to our hotel well-nourished physically and spiritually. I'm happy I met them and wish them both marvelous adventures in Boston. They remind me of Quixote and Sancho embarking on a glorious quest together, though which is whom I couldn't say.

Throughout dinner many plans and ideas had been bandied about for post-prandial hotel hi-jinks. TV slumber parties, gambling sprees and furtive assignations in various hotel rooms. Regrettably (or fortunately), none of these came to pass. Michelle and I drove back to the hotel and decided to check out the casino. Not quite what I expected: slots, bingo and a lot of faces with a pall of hopelessness. An Edward Hopper painting of a pinball arcade. If I expected a rush, I didn't find it that night and after one circle through the room, Michelle and I bid each other a yawning goodnight and retire. I can't even remember if Peter Vitale was in the room when I got there or whether he came in later. I do remember we switched on the TV long enough to marvel at the sheer number of available cable channels with nothing to watch and before long the lights were out and so were we. Not a bad idea — we had an 8:30 call the next morning.

The next morning we're up, checked out and, with only a few misdirections and no breakfast, assembled at the Leech Lake Alternative School by 8:45 a.m. We set up in the gym. LLAS is a reservation school for tribal kids in crisis — on the edge of dropping out or worse. Michelle observes that Eurydice may be a hard play for many of them as most will have experienced the death of a close relative or friend through suicide, violence, or alcohol/drug abuse. All of a sudden, in the cold light of morning, our bitching about the no-alcohol policy at the casino seems petty and ignorant. Those policies are in place for good reason, born from hard, bitter experience. Michelle also warns us that in Native American cultures, it is not common to openly show emotion and for us not to panic if we seem to be getting nothing back from the audience. Just because they're not showing anything doesn't mean they're not feeling anything.

The kids start arriving in groups, sometimes alone, some still eating breakfast. In arranging the performance Michelle asked attendance be voluntary — please, don't make anybody be there who doesn't want to be. But nevertheless, the chairs quickly fill up and the staff scrambles to find more. We even spot a couple of kids who had been at the performance the night before. That's encouraging; they want to see it again.

The performance begins and Michelle is right- we get nuttin'. At first. But as the play progresses, the teens tune in with an intensity that seems to press upon us by sheer weight. By the time Eurydice shouts our Orpheus's name and makes him look behind to see her, a young boy gasps "Oh. My. God." This play is engaging these kids on a level we really haven't seen before and I think Michelle's observation is spot on- most of these kids have lost near and dear to the land of the dead.

We decided that after the performance we would try to engage them in a dialogue while keeping in character. Each of us came up with one or two questions we thought might be provocative. My question is, if, when you died, you could choose- who would want to remember the living and who would want to forget everything? Lots of vigorous opinion on that one and pretty evenly divided. The kids relax and we have a wonderful discussion, not only about the play but about theatre, the arts and what they think the future holds for them. Many hope for jobs in the casino industry, some look to leave the reservation in some way, maybe through college or vo-tech. But many can just shrug- their horizon stretching only as far as getting through the day. I want to think, to hope, we've helped make their struggles, if not easier to bear, at least easier to reflect upon in some positive way but that's probably naive of me. I only know that I thought I saw in their eyes, if only for a brief and shining moment, the possibility of alternative. And it is that look, that connection, that keeps bringing me back to TTT.

On the drive back to the Cities, it's still just me and Michelle. We talk briefly about the performance, but Michelle senses I'm tired and graciously says to close my eyes and take a nap, just like a mom. I gratefully tilt back the seat and, looking out the window, start to drift off. There are no telephone lines to be seen through the glass, fiber-optics and time have mad them go the way of the Burma-Shave sign. But as I fade off, I see them in my mind's eye and am enveloped in a feeling of warm contentment. I wonder about the kids we saw this morning, of the two Boston-bound Jakes from Bemidji, Vera Mariner willing to kill for beer and can't quite piece it all together. But that's OK- to know is not always possible, not always desirable. Sometimes we just need to wonder. And in a car on the brink of sleep with the marvelous Michelle Hensley at the wheel, taking care of me, doing all the driving, NPR murmuring softly in the background, and the telephone lines of my youth stringing me along, wondering comes easy, dear reader. And when I wake up, I'll be home.