Ben Gabbe/bengabbephotography.com
Rachel Dratch had already had a day. Not only had she spent most of the afternoon and evening memorizing, rehearsing and performing in “24 Hour Musicals,” but the actress had been the go-to girl for the New York Times’ live blog of the daylong process. As she left the after party at the National Arts Club at 1 a.m., all she wanted to do was go home.
By the time the party ended and I stood on the sidewalk, trying to light a cigarette, I realized that I’d lost my opportunity to interview Broadway hottie Cheyenne Jackson. And that I was drunk.
Unfortunately, my realizations coincided with Dratch’s departure. As she waved goodbye to a few stragglers and headed east, I knew I should talk to her. I had to talk to her. This was my chance. Coming up from behind her on the sidewalk, I said hello.
Too late, I heard my own voice as it came out of my mouth. Hours of vodka and mentholated cigarettes had left me hoarse, and my hello sounded like the start of an Amber Alert. Dratch jumped, and looked up at me, towering over her on the vacant street.
Mortified, I began babbling apologies in between giggling at the absurdity of the whole situation. To make it up to her, I insisted on walking her home. In retrospect, she probably wasn’t just being polite when she said I didn’t have to do that. Or when she reminded me that she was taking me out of my way. But I insisted that my mother would never forgive me if I allowed a woman to walk home unescorted.
Graciously accepting the fact that I was bound and determined to see her safely home (and that I could probably catch up to her if she made a run for it), Dratch resigned herself to being nothing less than polite, even as I forgot the name of her upcoming Broadway show (Minsky’s, opening next season) and made what were intended to be self-deprecating Debbie Downer jokes, without realizing who I was talking to.
By the time we reached her apartment, she was no doubt thrilled to escape, and I was suddenly relieved that she was gone. I had just expended a lot of energy in trying to convince a frightened actress that I’m ultimately harmless. Next time, I’ll save myself the trouble and track down Cheyenne Jackson. He doesn’t seem like the type to be put off by a drunken guy approaching him on the street at 1 a.m.
By the time the party ended and I stood on the sidewalk, trying to light a cigarette, I realized that I’d lost my opportunity to interview Broadway hottie Cheyenne Jackson. And that I was drunk.
Unfortunately, my realizations coincided with Dratch’s departure. As she waved goodbye to a few stragglers and headed east, I knew I should talk to her. I had to talk to her. This was my chance. Coming up from behind her on the sidewalk, I said hello.
Too late, I heard my own voice as it came out of my mouth. Hours of vodka and mentholated cigarettes had left me hoarse, and my hello sounded like the start of an Amber Alert. Dratch jumped, and looked up at me, towering over her on the vacant street.
Mortified, I began babbling apologies in between giggling at the absurdity of the whole situation. To make it up to her, I insisted on walking her home. In retrospect, she probably wasn’t just being polite when she said I didn’t have to do that. Or when she reminded me that she was taking me out of my way. But I insisted that my mother would never forgive me if I allowed a woman to walk home unescorted.
Graciously accepting the fact that I was bound and determined to see her safely home (and that I could probably catch up to her if she made a run for it), Dratch resigned herself to being nothing less than polite, even as I forgot the name of her upcoming Broadway show (Minsky’s, opening next season) and made what were intended to be self-deprecating Debbie Downer jokes, without realizing who I was talking to.
By the time we reached her apartment, she was no doubt thrilled to escape, and I was suddenly relieved that she was gone. I had just expended a lot of energy in trying to convince a frightened actress that I’m ultimately harmless. Next time, I’ll save myself the trouble and track down Cheyenne Jackson. He doesn’t seem like the type to be put off by a drunken guy approaching him on the street at 1 a.m.
