Keith Rutledge, a 25-year-old librarian's assistant in Houston, wanted to enjoy a relaxing evening on the town. He ate some Tex-Mex burritos and had a few drinks and then headed to the men's room at Sherlock's Pub.

Suddenly, his relaxing evening took an unpleasant turn. “Hello, sir,” a smartly dressed bathroom attendant said as Rutledge scurried into the stall. When he came out, the man squirted Dial soap into his hand and turned on the water for him. Rutledge knew he had to shell out a tip. “You could be dirty and a dollar richer,” Rutledge says, “but if you want to wash your hands, you have to go past him.”

Until recently, it seemed that restroom attendants – whose job is to stand around the bathrooms handing out everything from towels to mints – were going the same way as the chimney sweep. But more and more bars, restaurants and nightclubs are now hiring them to work both men's and women's restrooms – often to the chagrin of their embarrassed customers. Rutledge says even his favorite sports bar, Tavern on Gray, has stationed attendants in the restrooms.

Restroom attendants are seen everywhere from Milwaukee and Cincinnati to San Francisco. They can be found in national chains such as the House of Blues and Jillian's, a chain of 35 restaurants and arcades. And the demand for restroom attendants is creating an industry dedicated to staffing restrooms. Royal Flush, a New York-based company that specializes in placing restroom attendants, says it has hired restroom attendants at 10 establishments in the past year and a half and now has 40 such clients. Chazz Ward, a restroom attendant entrepreneur in Florence, Kentucky, has hired “lounge hosts” at 16 establishments and is now trying to franchise the business. Many bars and restaurants are trying to modernize the tradition by hiring attractive young restroom attendants and keeping their stations minimalist and not cluttered with toiletries.

Terrance Ward started out as a bathroom attendant at nightclubs in Ybor City, Florida, and now employs bathroom attendants at eight nightclubs and two restaurants in Milwaukee. On a good night, Ward can make as much as $150 in tips himself, he says. The rest of his time is devoted to running his bathroom attendant company, A Touch of Class, a job he says has become more difficult in recent months due to increased competition.

The rise in towel assistance can be explained in part by the fact that it is a cost-effective way to add flair to a venue. “It increases the perception of the club. It's a matter of prestige,” says David Van Kalsbeek, marketing manager at the MGM Grand hotel and casino in Las Vegas, which employs restroom attendants at both Studio 54 nightclub and Tabu Lounge. The attendants keep bathrooms clean throughout the night by collecting paper towels and wiping down sinks; they make sure toilets are unclogged and make sure toilet paper rolls are replenished. Mopping and scrubbing are usually done at the end of the night by a separate cleaning service.

Adam Jed, manager of the Matrix Fillmore, a nightclub in San Francisco, has hired a guard as part of his “broken window” theory. “If you allow the restrooms to get dingy, people will continue to treat your place that way,” he says. The extra pair of eyes, he says, “prevents illegal activity,” such as drug use. At Have a Nice Day Cafe, a retro '70s- and '80s-style nightclub in Milwaukee, the restroom guard stands guard to prevent even the smallest of things, like theft of toilet paper, says a manager.

Some customers are used to having privacy in the restroom and don't appreciate the extra help. They feel sorry for the people working there and are uncomfortable being watched. “The best analogy is waving away the guys trying to clean your windshield in traffic,” says Brooks Hamaker, a telemarketing manager in New Orleans.

Some restaurant owners are aware that guests don't like restroom attendants, but say they're taking a new approach that eliminates those drawbacks. Van Kalsbeek of the MGM Grand says, “There are those who turn the water on for you and try to dry your hands – we don't do that.” Rainer Zach, operations manager of the new Chicago nightclubs Y and Sound-Bar, says the restroom attendants at both establishments are good-looking, friendly people in their 20s. Their stations aren't cluttered. “The only thing they do,” Zach says, “is make sure the place is clean and hand you a towel.”

Chris Heilgeist, a 25-year-old film student and three-night-a-week guard at the Y, says he makes $200 to $250 a night, including minimum wage and tips. “It's only a bad job because people think so,” he says. His boss, Zach, says guards in the men's restrooms tend to make a little more than staff in the women's restrooms because men tend to tip more.

That doesn't mean it's always easy to retain staff. Crobar, another Chicago nightclub, also tried to staff its bathrooms with hip, young people when it reopened in October after a remodel. “They left,” says the manager. Management hired a longtime bathroom attendant from another venue to staff the place.

One reason owners are willing to offer a service that may not be well received by customers may be because it's cheap. Staffing agencies say every deal is different, but in some cases establishments pay as little as $20 a night to man a bathroom. Some employees are paid a small hourly wage. Others work only for tips. The most common tip is a dollar.

Kentucky entrepreneur Chazz Ward was working as a bouncer at a Jillian's near Cincinnati five years ago when he came up with the idea of ​​providing restroom attendants to the business. Today, his company, Black Tie Services, provides restrooms at 16 restaurants, clubs and entertainment centers in Northern Kentucky, Cincinnati and Indiana. His latest venture: franchising the business. He says he's negotiating with four potential franchisees across the country who want to get involved in the concept he developed. Ward has a theory, developed after spending “thousands of hours” in restrooms, about why people feel so uncomfortable having restroom attendants.

“People don't get enough respect in their everyday lives,” Ward says. Then, suddenly, they go into the bathroom and a lounge host pulls out towels, mints and the best cologne. “It's like someone has never been told they're loved, and when they get into a relationship, they're told they're loved,” he says.

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Telepathy Is the Sixth Stage of Grief

Jane Pek

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Exercises in Thinking by Jane Pek

I

I chose my psychic for her name. Faith, or Hope—that would have been too much. But: Grace. Maybe she even heard me when I thought, Yes.

I found her, like everything else, on the internet. All you have to do is google finding missing people psychic brooklyn and the true believers float to the surface, unable to sink despite themselves. The crystal healers, the Tarot readers, the ghost whisperers and demon exorcists, the astrologers and alchemists. Grace Banks. Grace’s website was also the only example I saw that didn’t give me any middle-school project or Renaissance faire vibes, so, who knows, maybe I’d have gone with her even if she had been Seraphina the Seer.

This was right after I read about the bomoh showing up at the Kuala Lumpur airport, his self-imposed mission to exorcise the evil spirits preventing the rescuers from locating the plane. It wasn’t like I thought clacking around some coconuts would do anything for anyone, alive or dead or neither or in-between. But I also thought—I think—what the fuck do we know? Two hundred and thirty-nine people, three hundred thousand pounds of metal, the overcast silence of the sky. I said all of this in my email to Grace Banks. I was in the insomniac trough of my night, those underwater hours between one and three AM, and I said too many things.

She wrote back seven minutes later from her iPhone and asked me to come in.

The address was at the waterfront end of Greenpoint Avenue, separated from the East River by an empty lot that was nine months away from groundwork being laid for yet another sleek, cheaply built condominium. Banks Consulting occupied the second floor, above a bar and below an acupuncture studio. A shabby three-floor commercial building, local retail tenants, cusp-y Brooklyn neighborhood hobbled by lack of subway access—it could have been one of my properties. Surely this was a sign.

Grace’s office smelled of spirituality, which to me smelled like incense. Otherwise, the space less resembled a psychic’s storefront than a contemporary art gallery. Framed photographs of landscape scenes hung on exposed brick walls. The room had an open layout and no furniture, except for a coffee table and floor cushions in a corner. Grace herself, consistent with her online persona, similarly appeared committed to defying as many stereotypes about psychics as she could. There was nothing gauzy or glittery about her, no turbans or shawls or dangly jewelry, no dramatic eyeshadow or any other makeup as far as I could tell. She was dressed in black and carried an iPad. She looked like a young woman trying to channel Steve Jobs (which, given her profession, perhaps she was). Her handshake was dry, brisk and assured. I was relieved, if also a little disappointed.

When we sat down she said, “Michael, I want to be clear about how I can help and how I can’t.”

Of course she wouldn’t be able to find you. If she could, she would already have. She told me about the effort organized by the global psychic community when the plane first disappeared, practitioners across twenty-five time zones sitting down and focusing on sensing the location of the aircraft. The analogy she used was of individual users contributing the processing power of their PCs towards some big computing project, like SETI. Grace had participated, singing for two hours. (“Singing?” I asked. “Music is my medium,” she said. “Pun unintended.”) But the astral realm had been too shrouded. Too many negative vibes. Fear, said Grace, and panic—and hearing her say that stirred up some diffuse, silt-like memory of those emotions in me.

What she could do, she concluded, if I wanted, was help me get in touch with you.

“As in, telepathy?”

“We don’t like that word.”

“Why not?”

“It’s been co-opted by popular culture. I prefer the term psionic communication: one mind speaking directly to another mind.”

“So you think he’s alive?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But if I can talk to Connor,” I said, “can’t he just tell me where he is?”

She explained that this would be a one-way setup: since you wouldn’t have a psychic to help you, you wouldn’t have the ability to respond in any meaningful way. I would be able to sense your presence—nothing more.

“And this will only work if your son is receptive enough. It’s possible that we’ll do everything we need to do on our end and he’ll still be unable to hear you. Are the two of you close?”

“No,” I said.

“Are you fine with the fact that it might not work?”

“Yes.”

“No,” she said, “you’re not.”

I was impressed. “I can handle it.”

She looked at me. I tried to think confident thoughts.

“It will take some time for you to be ready,” she said. “You’ll have to build up your psychic range. I’ll talk you through the steps of what’s involved and you can practice.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And we’ll have to do it on-site. Have you ever been to Kuala Lumpur?”

II

Exercise No. 1: Clearing your mind

Think of a room in your house the way it is. Furnished, cluttered maybe. Think of removing everything in it, restoring it to emptiness. Then remove the room itself—walls, ceiling, floor.

(Grace’s voice, fuzzy on speakerphone: “What’s left?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“I don’t ask trick questions.”

“The rest of the building, I guess.” “Keep going.”)

There are no direct flights from New York to Kuala Lumpur. I booked two economy tickets on United. When I told Grace Banks which flight and the date I had chosen she didn’t object, which I took to mean nothing too catastrophic would happen.

I checked in online and arrived at Newark two hours early like one is supposed to. While I waited for Grace I replied to work emails to try to stop myself from doing what I really wanted to do. My architect was proposing a new floor plan for 333 Franklin. The tenant at 700 Manhattan #1 wanted to extend her lease. The city had more questions about my application for a plumbing permit for 76 Meserole. I ran out of emails, stared at the time blinking away on one of the LED screens that were everywhere in the terminal, watched people leave and arrive and leave again, figured fuck it, and called your mother. I wasn’t expecting her to pick up but she did. It was just before midnight in Beijing.

I told her I was going to Malaysia, and she asked me why.

“To try to talk to Con.”

“What do you mean?”—and I could sense the fluttering, still, beneath the appalled weight of her question.

“I think I have a shot of connecting to Con’s consciousness, but I need to be in Kuala Lumpur to do that.”

I heard, within the faint static of the subpar connection, Fuck, Walter’s right, he is losing it; and then, a breath later: “Mikey . . . I really think you should try seeing someone.”

I said, “I am, actually.” This was a quarter-truth. In the past month I had been on three dates with a woman I met on Tinder, an HR manager and aspiring comedian. I wasn’t planning to go on a fourth.

“Are you? That’s great. Did you tell them about, what you’re planning to do?”

“No. We only just started going out. I don’t think I’m ready to share something like that with her yet.”

“I meant, like a therapist.”

“I guess you could say she’s kind of like a therapist.”

“The woman you’re dating? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“What?—no. My psychic.”

She sighed, and I heard, Whatever, you’re a grown man, or an overgrown child, one of the two, and in either case you’re not my problem anymore. The practice must have been paying off.

“When are you going?” she asked.

“I’m at the airport now. Back a week later.”

“This Wednesday is—”

“I know,” I said. “That’s why now. You thought I’d forgotten and this was just an incredible coincidence?”

“You’ve forgotten before.”

I contemplated the floor. Had the designer chosen this shade of speckled grey because it concealed dirt so well? Those are the kinds of questions I ponder now. I wanted to say that she had been the one to up and move to China when you were twelve—hadn’t California been far enough?—but I knew what her response would be. One: that was irrelevant. Two: relative proximity hadn’t helped my memory much. Jab, cross, knockout.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “There was no need to say that.”

“No,” I said. “You’re right.”

“Regardless. It doesn’t matter anymore.” She paused; I felt her attention shift. “I have to go.”

“Walter getting jealous?”

I wanted to snatch that back once I heard myself, trying too hard for a subpar joke that, it’s obvious to all, is really on me. But when your mother spoke I could tell she had barely registered what I said. “It’s Deanna. She’s been having these nightmares. Ever since.”

I knew, right then: Deanna thought her stepbrother was still alive, as well. True believer. “I’ll let you go.”

After I hung up I closed my eyes and emptied my mind, and then I looked around for Grace. The plane was taking off in a little over an hour. She hadn’t texted or called. I dialed her number and let the line ring itself out.

I was starting to let myself think that it had been a bizarre scam—except I hadn’t paid her yet—or a reality show gotcha-type situation—in which case I would be resolutely and disappointingly undramatic, just walk back out and get into a cab like I had known all along—when I heard, behind me: “Hello, Michael.”

I turned. “You’re late,” I said, striving to project admonition into my outer voice, utterly negated, no doubt, by the aura of panicked relief that even a non-psychic could see.

“I wanted to let you finish up your conversation with your ex-wife,” she said. “Also, the security line is the shortest it’s been for the last forty-five minutes. We should take advantage of that.”

She clicked off, wheeling her suitcase behind her. I followed.

During our layover in Hong Kong I asked Grace, “How did you get into the psychic business?”

We were sitting side by side staring out through the glass at the planes lined up on the runway. Behind them a low green wave of hills rolled across the steamy horizon. She sipped at her bottle of coconut water and said, “It was similar to how you got into real estate.”

“You gave up on being a shitty artist?”

She turned to look at me. “I don’t think you’re being fair to yourself.”

I shrugged, embarrassed.

“I’ve seen a few of your paintings.”

“Where?” I’ve shown in a few (small) galleries, but that was years ago. I suppose there are people out there who own my artwork, assuming they haven’t recycled it or given it away at a yard sale.

She tapped her temple. All right then.

“The Helen series,” she said. “That was your wife?”

Up until then I hadn’t mentioned your mother any more than necessary. Not how we met in Santiago de Compostela one hectic night in July, two college backpackers without the foresight to consider that showing up during the Festas do Apóstolos with no prearranged accommodation would mean wandering about on the streets of the old town until dawn, or how we got married seven months later, or how we laughed at the foolishness of the question people kept asking: were we sure? I talked about her only in terms of you. She had primary custody, and after she remarried she took you away from New York, first to San Francisco and then to Beijing, all in furtherance of her second husband’s lucrative, soul-destroying finance career. Over last year’s spring break she let you fly to Kuala Lumpur with your best friend to stay with his family. I pushed for it—I’d always thought your mother was overprotective of you, to your detriment. And then you had been late for your flight back to Beijing, gotten to the boarding gate after it closed, been rebooked on the first plane out the next morning.

I’d always thought your mother was overprotective of you, to your detriment.

“Yes,” I said.

“When was the most recent one completed?”

I frowned as if I was trying to remember. “Nine years ago?” I wondered if she knew about Helen VII, which I put away a week after I started, when your mother told me Walter had proposed—and then I wondered if my thinking about it might have alerted her.

“They move me,” said Grace. “Is that enough?”

“What do you mean?”

“For an artist. To know that their work moves someone.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. I nodded at the sky in front of us, above the hills, which had swelled and darkened while we had been speaking. “Looks like a thunderstorm.”

“Our flight will be fine. But the rain will be an issue in KL.”

It annoyed me how assuredly she said that. “I didn’t know your abilities extended to weather prediction.”

She smiled. She might have been about to say something in reply, but then the man at the gate counter began announcing that the flight was ready to board. She stood up, stretched. “Onwards and upwards.”

III

Exercise No. 2: Bringing the recipient into your psychic focus, Part A

You’re familiar with the two past tenses in Spanish. Start with the preterito: a specific memory of the recipient, sharp, bright, bounded. Wrap it around you so tightly that its edges dissolve, memory becomes experience, and what you remember you felt then—some glimmering of it—that’s what you feel now.

(We’re splayed out on my couch racing Mario Kart as we have been for the past three hours, hands cramping, vision haloed, shaking our heads to get rid of theme song tinnitus. That couch—it’s a Craigslist freebie, and something about the upholstery, it’s too coarse or maybe just dirty, is causing a rash to break out across your legs. You keep scratching, never saying anything, you’re that kind of kid, and it makes me furious, at the unhygienic bastard I got the couch from, and how your mother is right about what a shitty parent I am, and at you, how fragile you are, and how silent. I don’t say anything either, I’m that kind of coward. Then I realize you’ve been letting me win this whole time, staging your crashes, gauging my haplessness so you can steer one obstacle behind me.)

It was not raining when we landed in Kuala Lumpur. The sun flared down on the tarmac, so bright my eyes hurt just looking out through the cabin window. I resolved not to remark on the weather. In the arrivals hall we were set upon by a horde of men, all ages and sizes, demanding to know if we needed a ride to our hotel. I was prepared to shoulder my way through to the safety of an officially sanctioned taxi line, but Grace said to one of them, “Do you have a meter?” and when he nodded eagerly, looked at me.

“Why not,” I said.

We crawled away from the airport and onto the expressway and right into a shimmery impasse of traffic. Our driver jerked to a stop and fiddled with the radio dial. We tuned into a confection of a melody, somehow granted gravity by being sung in a language I didn’t understand. I stared at the pickup truck ahead of us and willed it to move. No dice. Men—construction workers, in long sleeves and safety vests and boots—sat along both sides of the truck’s cargo bed, under a tarpaulin rigged up like a roof, looking dusty and stoic. Everything was coming across as slightly wavy in the heat, although that could also have been an effect of jet lag and exhaustion. I hadn’t slept at all, the entire twenty-three hours. It had been my first time on a plane since what happened to you, and I kept thinking I should stay vigilant, just in case. Beside me Grace had reclined her seat as far as it would go once we reached cruising altitude, snapped on her eye mask, and peaced out for the rest of the flight.

I leaned forward. “Could you please turn up the AC?”

The driver stared at me through the rear view mirror. He was so young—I hadn’t noticed until now—and all of a sudden I knew, the absolute way that one does in every fairy tale, encountering the bird enchanted or the boy ensorcelled. What a strange, wild relief it was: you right there, watching me the way you used to, waiting for me to recognize you.

“Con,” I said, right as Grace said, “The air conditioning. Sila.”

The driver, just a Southeast Asian taxi driver once again, someone else’s son, another boy with morose eyes and bony wrists, pressed a few buttons. A labored whirring issued from the air conditioning vents, unaccompanied by any discernible change in temperature.

The song ended, and as we segued into the slightly manic patter of an ad spot, all the white light of the afternoon faded out around us. If we had been in a movie, this would be the scene where the undead armies showed up. I peered up at the sky through my window and saw that it had bruised over, purplish-yellow, as if some kind of violence had been done to it. Less than three minutes later it burst open like a cosmic wound. Now I was grateful for how slowly we were moving, as the rain thwacked against the roof and sides of the car like ammunition and the world blurred into abstract expressionism. I thought of Gorky, de Kooning, and then the men on that truck bed, less than five feet away and impossible to make out now despite the wipers frenzying back and forth across the windshield. I couldn’t imagine their makeshift roof had survived. I glanced at Grace, but she was looking out of her window.

IV

Exercise No. 3: Bringing the recipient into your psychic focus, Part B

Now, the imperfecto. Picture the recipient again, but this time unattached to any single incident or event.

(“So he’s just, kind of, floating?”

“If you picture him floating.”

I pictured a picture. A Rembrandt, maybe, the solemn curves of the face holding the light and hiding from it at the same time. Blank out the Dutch nobleman and swab you in, with your unruly hair and ironic T-shirt. Except it was too hard, imagining your face the last time I saw you, and I ended up with a Magritte instead, a cut-out of the night sky.)

I lay in bed that first night listening to the rain beat the world outside into submission.

I don’t remember doing so but I must have fallen asleep, because at some point I opened my eyes and a dull light was bleeding into the room around the edges of the black-out curtain. At first I wasn’t sure if it was still raining or if the sound of it had simply taken up residence in my skull. I staggered to the window and looked out at the topography of office buildings, low tiled roofs, construction cranes pointing scaffolded fingers into the sky, tiny lagoons of greenery within the concrete. A pair of towers in the hazy distance made me think, momentarily, of the old World Trade Center. We celebrated your second birthday shortly before it fell. For months afterwards we hid out in our apartment, terrified of the prospect of another attack, discussing endlessly if the city had become too unsafe for you. We even planned at one point to leave. Now I can see that what really terrified us was realizing that we had made you and then placed you in a world of dangers we couldn’t keep you safe from: how fucking powerless we were.

Grace had said she would let me know when we were ready to, as she put it, begin the outreach. I ordered room service and practiced my exercises. When she knocked on my door later that day, though, it was to ask if I wanted to venture out for dinner. “The rain’s letting up,” she said. “It will stop soon.”

We hustled through the drizzle to a local eatery a few blocks away. It was the sort of place that the city seemed to be pockmarked with, an open storefront with folding tables and plastic stools and wall fans pushing hot air back and forth. The other diners stared at us like we had dripped in from another galaxy. An old woman who seemed to be the only server waved us to an empty table and then immediately asked us what we were ordering.

“Is there a menu?” I asked.

She pointed at the back wall, where a signboard listed a dozen or so items, none of which I had ever heard of.

I glanced at the next table, where a woman was tearing up a large pancake and dipping it in a side dish of curry. “I’ll have that please.”

Grace was still looking at the signboard. She said, “I’ll have the number two.”

She spoke with her usual definitiveness, but when the bowl of soup was sloshed down in front of her, she stared at it like a scryer divining disaster in its livid orange depths.

I said, “We can switch if you’d like.”

She blinked up at me. “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

On my second beer—a bland local brand that I was only drinking for its clarifying, icy coldness—I asked, “What did you mean, it was similar to how I got into real estate?”

Grace said, as if we had been talking about this for the last ten minutes, “I had an opportunity and I took it, and then I realized I had a knack.”

It’s funny, but until then, I’d never thought of it that way. Putting my close-to-zero net worth into a foreclosed building in a blighted neighborhood, at a time when banks were collapsing and debt markets were imploding and everyone else was shitting themselves trying to get out—that had been fatalism, if anything. A senseless act in a world that no longer made sense. But then I began fixing up the property, and looking into refinancing, and bidding at more fire sales, and I understood that I’d finally found something that could consume me without making me care about it.

“What kind of opportunity?” I said. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“My sister disappeared.”

I instinctively started to say I was sorry, then decided I shouldn’t without further context. “Did you find her?”

She nodded.

“Was she . . . all right?”

She nodded again. I took the hint. “What were you doing before?”

“Advertising.”

The rain had intensified again by the time we were ready to leave. We stood on the covered sidewalk and watched the water sheeting down, illuminated in the orange blush of the street lights. We hadn’t brought umbrellas, given Grace’s assurance that they would not be necessary.

I said, “Seems like you’re a bit off your game tonight.”

I thought I’d intended it as a joke until I heard my voice. Grace continued staring out at the rain. I couldn’t decide if I should apologize or ask her to tell me, for real, if she believed that what we came here to do was possible.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “You’ll speak to him tomorrow.”

When we got back to the hotel I took a shower and had another beer from the minibar before sitting down to swipe through all the photos of you that I had stored in my phone. Your mother sent them every quarter; I’m guessing she had the task listed on her calendar. All your questionable hairstyles. That three-month period when you stretched out, like your limbs had been lashed to wild horses pulling in four different directions. How did fathers in the pre-electronic age handle distance? Their sons and their daughters strangers to them each time they returned from their quests, their wars, their voyages and expeditions, running further and further away so they could look forward to coming home again. But I guess you became a stranger to me as well, even if I know exactly what you look like.

V

Exercise No. 4: Presenting your message

Decide what it is you want to share with the recipient.

(“It could be anything. An emotion you have. A sunset you wish they could have seen too. Smells—trickier, but not impossible. I had someone once who shared her nightmare. The point is, don’t limit yourself. Unless you want to, of course.”)

Think of a Venn diagram that consists of two elements, the recipient—

(“Because you still have the recipient in your psychic focus, right?”

“Shit. Hold on. Okay . . . okay.”)

—and the message, and both overlap perfectly: in effect, they become the same concept. And then listen.

And now tomorrow is today, and the rain has stopped, at last, and Grace and I are walking around what Wikitravel says is the old city center. Even in the shade it feels like being in an open-air steam bath. Uncovered drains run along the side of the roads, water churning brown within them. As an American landlord, everywhere I see lawsuits waiting to be filed.

Grace, incredibly, is still dressed all in black: turtleneck, jeans, and boots. Even more incredibly, she looks dry-skinned and unflushed, as if her outfit is climate-controlled. “How do you do it?” I ask.

“It’s all in the mind.”

A plaque notifies us that we’ve arrived at Merdeka Square. It’s a large rectangle of grass with a massive flagpole at one end, a fountain at the other, and fake-looking palm trees all around. The buildings around us are an odd collection of architectural styles, part historic and part fantastic. Some British colonial nostalgia, some Arabian Nights, a church teleported from an English village. Behind them, skyscrapers advertise the names of banks and Fortune 500 companies, as if someone slid in the wrong backdrop by mistake.

Grace gazes up at the Malaysian flag that hangs like a dish towel at the top of the pole. The sky is abundant with clouds, fleecy masses of them, but right then the sunlight angles through and we’re left standing in its unforgiving glare.

“Here,” she says.

I look at her, the set of steps leading up to the base of the flagpole, the young couple pushing a stroller along. The woman is wearing a lilac headscarf; the man has a camera slung around his neck. I can’t see the child. The sweat pools under my arms and on my chest, and I feel like I might suffocate.

“Close your eyes.”

It’s as if a volume dial has been spun up. I’m suddenly, vitally aware of a motorcycle ripping past, the swoosh of car traffic, a distant jackhammering, a child’s shriek. Grace’s voice, a richness to it that I haven’t heard previously. I don’t recognize what she’s singing—the words are in a language I don’t know—but I feel almost as if I should, as if this is something I’ve heard before.

I’ve done this so many times by now. Empty my mind. The noises dissolve. The ground dissolves. The heat—it recedes, marginally. Specific memory. Your face on a screen, an amateur pointillist’s rendition, Cubist in proportions because of the nonchalant angle at which you have propped up your phone. No, not this one. I don’t want this one. But I hear myself again, my voice so fucking loud, as if I’m shouting at you across a chasm and not merely hampered by a substandard internet connection, trying to explain why having you here in New York with me this summer will be complicated. June is busy, July busier. I just bought two new buildings and they’ll need a ton of work. I see you gazing up and away, at whatever you’re obviously watching on your monitor. Finally you tilt your head to look at me, and as you do the video freezes. I hear your voice several seconds before your image twitches into animation again, as if issuing from the future: “Dad, I really don’t care.”

I open my eyes. All the colors are garish: the stale green of the grass, the flesh-pink tiles beneath my feet, the warped bronze of the domes across the field. What did I say, after he said that? “All right,” or “okay,” or maybe even “That’s fine,” like he had asked permission for something. And then some BS about how we could set something up for the end of the year, and he nodded along, and it was only after we hung up that I remembered he always spent Christmas with Helen and her parents in Milwaukee.

I say, “I lost him.”

“You didn’t,” says Grace.

For an absurd moment I want to press her palm to my cheek, feel the relief of her absolution.

She’s holding my hand. Her palm is shockingly cool. For an absurd moment I want to press her palm to my cheek, feel the relief of her absolution. But she can’t give me that; she can’t give me anything. I lost my son even before he died and now I’ll never, never find him again.

She says again, so gently, “You didn’t,” and lets go right before I pull away.

VI

I rebook our return flight for this evening.  When I bring my bags down to the lobby, one of the front desk receptionists approaches me. Ms. Banks has already checked out, he tells me. He sounds at once apologetic and intrigued. “She say, thank you.”

I guess one of us got a free trip to Southeast Asia out of this debacle. “She’s welcome. Could you help me call a taxi to the airport?”

“She ask me to tell you two more things first.”

I shake my head: I am done. “I have to catch a plane. Can you just call the taxi?”

“Your flight is UA78? It’s delayed. Departure time now eleven p.m.”

I don’t trust him until he brings me over to the reception counter and shows me the flight tracking information on his computer screen. “Fine,” I say. “What did she want to tell me?”

He says, “She said, you can still do what you came here to do. There’s still time.”

I settle for a mental Fuck you and hope she’s at least psychic enough to register that. “Got it,” I say. “That’s great. The taxi—”

“Also that your son didn’t mean what he said.”

Something ripples up within me, the silent aftermath of a mine detonated on the deepest ocean floor. “What?”

The man hesitates. Then he says, again, “Your son didn’t mean what he said.”

We look at each other. I would guess that he’s in his mid-forties, like me, the upward inclines of our lives starting to level off at an altitude so much lower than what we once thought it would be—but which, now that we’re here, is easy enough to accept: all the things we’ll never be, never do. He watches me with a kindness that makes me want to ask if he has children. If he can tell me what it is to be a good father; if it’s not too late.

“I call a taxi now?” he says. “It will take ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Sure,” I say. “Apparently I have plenty of time.”

The pilot has just announced that we are next in line for take-off when someone’s phone begins to ring. It’s a song, instrumental, one of those sweet, uncomplicated tunes that’s immediately familiar because it sounds almost exactly like a thousand other pop songs, the anodyne aural backdrop of a thousand retail stores. I tug the strap of my seatbelt tighter and stare out at the hallucinatory orange shadows on the runway and wait for either the phone’s owner to shut it off or someone else to tell them to do so.

The song fades out and then begins again. The cabin lights dim. I feel, rather than see, the plane begin its glide down the tarmac—and even though I know it’s impossible, I can still hear the music through the engine noise, clearer than before. The song fades again, begins again. The certainty closes around me like a fist: I have heard this song before.  Twice before; three different incarnations of the same melody.  It’s coincidence, or it isn’t, and maybe it doesn’t even matter.  There’s only the roaring of three hundred thousand pounds of metal tilting inexorably up into an overcast sky, and the darkness behind my closed eyelids, and trying, trying to listen.

VII

Do you remember that afternoon we spent in Brooklyn Bridge Park, right before you and your mother left New York? I picked you up as usual and we walked to the park and kicked around a soccer ball and then waited in an absurdly long line to get ice cream from a kiosk. Thinking about it now, I don’t know if either of us even wanted ice cream. But there were all these other parents and their kids standing there, and it felt like if we did the same thing then we could be like them, how I imagined them to be.

The day was warm for March, tepidly sunlit, calm. There was a moistness in the air that I associated with spring. We sat down on a bench out on one of the piers and I asked you if you were all set for San Francisco.

“Yeah,” you said.

Your overt lack of enthusiasm for the move enabled me to be magnanimous. “It’ll be good,” I said. “It’ll be an adventure.”

You didn’t say anything. You were turning your cone around in your hands, inspecting where the ice cream had begun to melt, licking at it before it could drip down the sides. Your feet swung back and forth, crossed at the ankles. If I were still painting, I thought, I would paint you like this.

I heard my voice, a lilt in it almost like surprise: “I’ll miss you, Con.”

You looked up at me and said, “Then why are you always late?”

That might have been the most shocking thing you ever said to me, up until that point. Even when your mother and I did the song-and-dance for you—about how we cared about each other and loved you deeply, but we had decided it would be better if I no longer lived with the two of you—all you had said was, “Okay.” You had aligned your gaze precisely between your mother and me when you said it, letting us know you wouldn’t take sides. Your ongoing loyalty to a team that no longer existed—that, more than anything else, had undone me.

“Well,” I said, trying to remember what time I had shown up at your mother’s door, if it had been at all within the realm of the excusable, “sometimes things come up and I need to take care of them first.”

“Things like what?”

“Things to do with work.”

In fact the gallery I’d been working at as a glorified administrator had closed down—our customer base was largely comprised of bankers and fund managers looking for something colourful to hang on their walls, and in the wake of Lehman and TARP and all that, it was clear none of them would be thinking about interior design for the foreseeable future. I had three weeks left on unemployment benefits and I hadn’t yet started looking for jobs. I told myself I was still in the process of figuring out what I wanted to do next. I would have told your mother that too, had she asked.

You continued to stare at me. Not in a hostile way, but as if trying to understand why I would say something so obviously false. Then you turned back to your ice cream, which by this point had melted all over your fingers, and you said to it, like a promise, “When I grow up I’m never going to be late.” I remember thinking that when you grew up you would be so many things, do so many things, you had no idea.

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PAJARO, California — Maria Martinez became nauseous as she and her son crossed the Pajaro River Bridge into Watsonville in Santa Cruz County.

Her home in the Monterey County township of Pajaro was flooded after a levee collapsed during a violent storm on March 10. Within hours, streets, homes and businesses in this mainly Spanish-speaking city of 3,000 people were under several feet of water.

As Martinez crossed the street, she saw two National Guard Humvees, a couple of fire engines, a couple of sheriff’s cruisers, and a security truck blocking traffic from entering the flood zone — an area that she and many others have been concerned about didn’t want to evacuate.

“It feels like the limit,” said Martinez, 35. “It’s a terrible feeling.”

She wasn’t the only person who reacted this way.

Residents of Pajaro, who were not allowed to re-enter their homes to collect belongings and supplies, were concerned. The fact that the levees broke on the Monterey County side of the river and not in Watsonville added to their frustration.

It was, they said, like history was repeating itself—again.

There is no indication that the breach was intentional or that the levees were built to make the Monterey County side more vulnerable.

But since the late 1840s when California county lines were drawn, dividing the Pajaro River Valley in half, the unincorporated city of Pajaro has been largely ignored by state and local officials.

The floods have spotlighted decades of injustice in this agricultural region, where migrant farm workers have long been marginalized. Runoff from record storms has left large areas of the low-income and mostly immigrant community several feet under water and faces a long recovery.

Officials had long known the levee could fail, but repair efforts have faced long delays. An official told the Los Angeles Times last week that an improvement project wasn’t completed in part because “it’s a low-income area. Mostly farm workers live there.

Some locals say the rating is part of a larger reality.

Such neglect, said Sandy Lydon, a retired history professor at Cabrillo College, is the legacy of a racist boundary dispute that relegated this small cluster of homes to an unincorporated upstate.

“Pajaro became something like Monterey County’s Siberia” and Watsonville’s “fiefdom,” he said — a place to house farm workers. “Let’s be honest. Cities with a lot of farm workers don’t want them to live downtown.”

Lydon said that current Monterey County officials have made efforts to better involve the city in their decision-making, and that Governor Gavin Newsom pledged his support for a recent tour of the flooded hamlet, “Historically, the Monterey County Board of Directors has never paid some attention to Pajaro. And that was on purpose.”

It’s an assessment that resonates with Monterey County Board of Supervisors President Luis Alejo, who said he is only the third Latino to serve as an elected supervisor.

“Right? In a county where 70% of the population is black?” he said. “There’s a deep history of exclusion.”

It all began, Lydon said, when the state was formed and the county lines were drawn. General Mariano Guadalupe Vallejo – former military governor of the “Alta California Free State”, large landowner in the region and member of a prominent Mexican family – headed the California Boundary Committee.

“Well, Vallejo was the guy,” Lydon said. “He probably knew better than anyone the status of what was to become the state of California.”

Part of his role was to draw county lines and select county seats—the place where courts and law enforcement would be based.

Vallejo’s first foray into Monterey County, where he was born, had extended the county south “almost to San Luis Obispo” and then north to “what his map said would be San Francisco,” Lydon said. Inland, the boundary included the entire Salinas and Pajaro valleys.

Monterey, which “was a Mexican city,” was the seat, Lydon said.

But white power brokers in the north, in present-day Santa Cruz County, pushed back.

“They didn’t want to go to court in Monterey because they knew there would be land titles, there was a lot of fighting going on, and they felt more comfortable if they could go to a court where… they would be convicted by a jury of their own kind.” Not, to put it bluntly, by Mexicans,” Lydon said.

Their proposed boundary extended south to Las Lomas, the small hills that line the southern rim of the Pajaro River Valley.

When the Boundary Committee finished its work, the circular line was drawn in the middle of the valley.

Why or how that decision was made is unclear, Lydon said; no minutes were taken. But he suspects there was likely a compromise between white Americans in Santa Cruz and Vallejo, who had family lands — the “Casa Materna” — in the southern Pajaro River Valley.

Vallejo, Lydon said, probably didn’t relish the prospect of fighting for his land claims in a Santa Cruz County court.

On February 18, 1850, the counties were created, bisecting the valley of the Pajaro River. A decision, Lydon said, that has “since led to nothing but trouble”.

He said Watsonville and Pajaro, on the outskirts of their respective counties, had been “orphaned” and “politically treated like colonies.”

“What evolved over time was that the Pajaro side … became where farm workers lived,” he said — beginning in the 1880s, when amidst anti-Chinese sentiment in Santa Cruz, workers living in Watsonville lived, crossed the river.

Soon the community – unencumbered by the laws and sensibilities of Watsonville’s Victorian era and ignored by Monterey County – became a safety valve for Watsonville, offering a mostly male population respite from gambling, opium and prostitution.

Lydon said after the Chinese were driven out of the country under China’s Exclusion Act of 1882 – which imposed a 10-year ban on Chinese immigration – Japanese workers moved in, and then Filipinos.

Alejo, the district manager, pointed to the Watsonville riots of 1930, in which mobs of up to 500 white men roamed Watsonville, Pajaro and other nearby towns and farms, attacking Filipino farm workers and their property after Filipino men danced with white women had a local dance hall.

“We’ve seen our part of history here,” he said.

But it was the Bracero program of the 1940s — an agreement between the United States and Mexico that allowed Mexican workers to come north — that brought a permanent population of workers to the region.

“The whole time, Monterey County didn’t do the roads, didn’t do the plumbing, they didn’t do anything in Pajaro. There was no infrastructure,” he said, noting that a walk around the city is still evidence of that neglect.

Anali Cortez, a Pajaro resident who had to be evacuated, agreed.

She said the past few days have been a nightmare – and her story illustrates the fate of many of her neighbors, who feel forgotten and neglected in a city they say is derided by others and compared to Watsonville, Salinas or Monterey is shabby.

Cortez said she and her neighbors pay their taxes but receive little in return.

She pointed to potholes in the road and lamented the lack of help after the flood. She has been turned away from overcrowded shelters and cannot go to work because she has no change of clothes.

“When you tell people you’re from Pajaro, they say things like, ‘I thought this place was deserted,'” Cortez said.

Martinez said several neighbors recently stood outside their apartment complex and engaged in deep conversations about their community’s mistreatment. Was it because the residents here were mostly migrant workers illegally in the country and afraid to complain to the county, they wondered.

The county has hampered the community’s growth for many decades, they said. Some of the roads haven’t been paved since the 1970s, there’s no street sweeping, and getting the county to allocate funds to Pajaro Park — a 5-acre neighborhood resource built in 2014 — took a tremendous effort, they said.

Some wondered if the county considered Pajaro so poor and run-down that it was okay to ignore the needs of its community. Was that it?

“It’s just discrimination,” said one woman finally. Martinez agreed.

The post How an extended historical past of racism and neglect set the stage for Pajaro flooding | Enterprise appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.

Claude Jackson Jr., a citizen of the Gila River Indian Community, is an attorney by day, the director of the tribe’s public defender’s office.

But by night he is a playwright. And in late January, one of his works, “Cashed Out,” will have its world premiere at the San Francisco Playhouse. It’s a story about addiction, a subject Jackson says he was compelled to write about.

Jackson has always enjoyed theater and film but wasn’t sure he would find a place in that world. The path to the premiere was long and filled with unexpected turns and Jackson says he made it with the help and encouragement of his younger brother, Roberto Jackson.

Set in Jackson’s Gila River tribal community, “Cashed Out” revolves around the character “Rocky,” to be played in San Francisco by Rainbow Dickerson, and Rocky’s family. Rocky is the daughter of a well-known basketmaker and if she wanted it, could make her own name in basketmaking. Instead, she goes another route and becomes an accountant, all while battling a gambling addiction.

“It’s a tragedy,” said Jackson, who said he was influenced by Arthur Miller and William Shakespeare. “It’s about a person who is addicted to gambling and how the family members are dealing with it. Now we don’t have that type of scourge, that our community members are addicted to gambling, but I did want to touch on addiction in some way.”

An online reading leads to more interest

The play had originally come from a shorter piece he wrote in 2019, which won the Von Marie Atchley Excellence in Playwriting Award for Native Voices at the Autry.

Native Voices at the Autry is devoted to developing and producing new works for the stage by Native American, Alaska Native, Native Hawaiian and First Nations playwrights. It is a popular program of the Autry Museum of the American West in Los Angeles, and it holds a short play contest annually, with a new theme each year. The year Jackson submitted “Cashed Out,” the theme was gaming.

After Jackson won, the theater troupe at the museum performed the play and it turned out that one of the audience members was from the San Francisco Playhouse. That person reached out to Jackson and asked if the theater could stage a zoom reading of the play with actors.

Brothers and collaborators, Claude (left) and Roberto Jackson pose for a portrait at Wild Horse Pass Casino on Dec. 29, 2022, at Chandler.
Megan Mendoza/The Republic

“This was during the pandemic and at the time a lot of playhouses were doing Zoom performances,” Jackson said. “They were trying to keep the theater scene afloat. They asked to do my play. The director at the time said it should be a long-form play.”

After the performance, Jackson sent an email thanking everyone and said in jest that he would be working on a longer form of the play. This caught the attention of Bill English, the co-founder of and artistic director of the San Francisco Playhouse, who immediately responded and said if Jackson was serious about doing a longer play of “Cashed Out,” the Playhouse would commission it.

“They liked my writing style,” Jackson said. He said it took a few drafts for them to get it to where they wanted.

Love of movies influences writing

Jackson has always loved movies. Growing up, he recalls taking his younger brother, Roberto Jackson, to the movies with him. Roberto, a writer, told Claude about the playwright competition, and both submitted original plays that they’d worked on individually.

The earlier years of going to movies also left an impression on Roberto, and both brothers have worked on movie projects together. One movie they wrote together is called “In Circles,” which Roberto directed in 2015.

“It won some awards,” Claude said. “It was featured in two well-known Native American film festivals. Even if it didn’t cost a lot of money to make, it took a long time because we had to do it on weekends, and it took over two years to film.”

As brothers, they are constantly bouncing ideas off of one another, and Claude said this kind of supportive and creative relationship is helpful when it comes to their artistic craft.

Claude Jackson Jr. holds the script to his play “Cashed Out” as he stands on a stage at Wild Horse Pass Casino for a portrait on Dec. 29, 2022, at Chandler. Jackson’s play is set in Arizona, where he holds a career in public defense in the Gila River Indian Community Tribal government.
Megan Mendoza/The Republic

Roberto has no hard feelings that his brother’s play had won and said it was a proud moment for him and the rest of Claude’s family. He said it’s hard to put into words how talented a writer his brother is and how his talent is reflected through his art.

“Watching him develop over the years and working with the Autry, it’s a great opportunity for me again to be exposed to the theater in that way,” Roberto said. “As brothers knowing what addiction meant to some of our relatives and even in our own lives, and to see it used as a way to comment on society, it’s powerful stuff.”

Theater for Indigenous actors, playwrights and directors isn’t anything new but it’s not as well known as the Indigenous movie and television scene, which has become increasingly popular in recent years. Claude said in a span of about seven years of playwriting, he has met Indigenous theater actors and playwrights like the well-known Larissa FastHorse, whose play, “The Thanksgiving Play,” is one of the top 10 most produced plays in America this season . Claude had actually worked in one of her plays.

“It’s something where I just fell into this circle, into this community,” Claude said. “I didn’t know how vast it was.”

Indigenous species:In ‘Rutherford Falls,’ Native artists portray Indigenous life through Native eyes

Creating opportunities for native artists

The director for “Cashed Out” is Tara Moses, a citizen of the Seminole Nation of Oklahoma and an award-winning playwright. Moses has been doing theater since she was 8, as an actor in local productions. She attended the University of Tulsa as a musical theater performance major and, while there, she quickly learned how unwelcoming the theater was for Native people.

“I was seldom cast because there were not opportunities made for me,” Moses said. “I quickly transitioned into directing because as a director, I had the most power in the room to create opportunities for other Native artists.”

Moses described “Cashed Out” as a powerful play with a lot of heart. The root of the play, a woman’s gambling addiction, is the connection all of the characters have with each other, she said.

Brothers and collaborators, Claude (left) and Roberto Jackson pose for a portrait at Wild Horse Pass Casino on Dec. 29, 2022, at Chandler. Claude holds a copy of a play he wrote, which will premiere in January 2023 at the San Francisco Playhouse.
Megan Mendoza/The Republic

“For Native people, we intimately understand how addiction manifests in our communities, and Claude did not shy away from the heartbreaking realities of it,” Moses said. “In the play, multiple characters suffer from drug addiction, gambling addiction and alcoholism, and not all of the characters overcome them. What I love so much about his play, and why I think it’s so important that it’s happening, is that throughout all the challenges, the family continue to pass down tradition and find ways to remain grounded and connected to who they are as Native people.”

Moses also noted “Cashed Out” is the first Native play the San Francisco Playhouse has produced, allowing for the first time their audiences to experience Native theater.

“The play involves so much traditional storytelling with nonlinear timelines and the presence of spirits, and also showcases us in a contemporary setting,” she said. “Many audiences only ever (if they ever do) experience Native characters living in the distant past, so this opportunity to see a real, nuanced, and complex story about real Native people living in 2023 will impact San Francisco in extremely meaningful ways.”

Growing up, Moses said she didn’t know other Native artists existed in the theater until she was 21. She is thankful that Native youth are living in a time where there is so much work being created by Native artists both on stage and on screen .

“Claude’s powerful play is one of the many being written, produced, and shared, and every single day I am thankful that there are more and more opportunities for Natives to see ourselves onstage,” she said. “Theater didn’t begin with the Greeks like we’re taught. Theater began with us, Indigenous peoples, telling stories for thousands and thousands of years before Greece even existed, so every Native storyteller has a place in the theater if they so want it.”

‘The theater nerd I always wanted to be’

During his time at Arizona State University, where he attended undergrad and law school, Claude said he was given a final assignment in his Native American literature class and he decided to write his first play. He received a B for that play and now, more than 20 years later, one of his works, “Olivia,” is set to be performed at ASU’s Theater Lab next fall.

But it didn’t happen overnight for Claude, even though he enjoyed movies and wanted to be a performer. He was set to perform in his first play his senior year of high school, but before that could happen he was kicked out of school. When he began attending ASU, he said he had no idea that being in theater was even an option for him.

“I remember watching the improv group there,” Claude said. “I watched them every Friday, I remember I was going to sign up and audition, but I chickened out. I never took that chance.”

Hiccups in life, such as trying to kick his drug and alcohol habit, had interfered with him getting involved with theater and exploring his artistic talent to its full potential. It made it easy for him to talk himself out of even giving it a shot. When stopped using drugs, he got involved with theater and even took acting classes at the local community college.

“When I started to be in these plays I loved it,” Claude said. “I loved the process. I loved the rehearsal. I was the theater nerd that I always wanted to be.”

The San Francisco Playhouse is a nonprofit 501(c)3 organization and was established in 2003. It is the Bay Area’s premiere mid-sized theater company, staging six plays and musicals a year at its 199-seat mainstage venue on Post Street, as well as three world premieres per year at intimate stages in downtown San Francisco.

Claude is excited about the San Francisco premier, but he is hoping to bring “Cashed Out” to Arizona.

“Hopefully the play does well in San Francisco and someone will take a chance and bring the play to Arizona,” said Claude. “I’m hoping I can bring it to Arizona. It’s a great story and I want to show it off to not only my community, but to the other O’odham communities, and to other tribes.”

“Cashed Out” premieres Jan. 26 and will be performed until Feb. 25, 2023.

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Arlyssa Becenti covers Indigenous affairs for The Arizona Republic and azcentral. Send ideas and tips to arlyssa.becenti@arizonarepublic.com.

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The post Claude Jackson Jr. will see his play premiere on a San Francisco stage appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.

What did our reviewers think of shows new to or still on Cape Cod stages this week?

Here’s a look at productions of “Jerker” at Provincetown Theater; “Assassins,” by College Light Opera Company; “Gary: A Sequel to Titus Andronicus” at Wellfleet Harbor Actors Theater; “Mame” at Chatham Drama Guild; “Twelfth Night” and “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” by the Cape Cod Shakespeare Festival in Chatham; “Mary Poppins” at Academy Playhouse; “Victor/Victoria” at Cotuit Center for the Arts; “The Ballad of Bobby Botswain” at Harbor Stage Company; and “Mamma Mia!” at Cape Rep Theatre in Brewster.

‘Assassins’

By Jay Pateakos

Written by: Music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, book by John Weidman, based on an original concept by Charles Gilbert Jr.; directed by Alison Morooney with musical direction by David Möschler; presented by College Light Opera Company

What it’s about: The “Assassins” musical focuses on the historical figures who have killed or attempted to kill United State presidents, what their lives were like behind all that we know about them, and how they would interact with other assassins over different generations when in the same room. Think of it as a carnival show but with sinister implications.

See it or not? See it, without a doubt, but look at it from a historical perspective. Our generation, after so many mass shootings, has learned to ignore the history of shooters. This play tends to glorify them but from a historical standpoint, it sheds light on some of the struggles the shooters went through. I found that fascinating: Squeaky Fromme’s rejection by her father; John Wilkes Booth’s theater performances being spurned by many critics; John Hinckley just looking to be loved.

Highlights of the show: There are a few. Booth, played fabulously by Jason Edelstein, is the glue that holds the assassins together. Erin Burtchaell, who plays Nixon’s would-be assassin Sam Byck draped in a dirty Santa Claus outfit, gives a stunning acting performance. Antonio Esposito masters his portrayal, along with the Polish accent, of Leon Czolgoscz, killer of President McKinley.

Fun fact: Stephen Sondheim started his career out as a lyricist, and has always been known for his intelligent use of lyrics. Spend the time listening to the dialogue of this musical.

Worth noting: The acting in this production makes it special and you lose sight of the fact that these are either current or recently graduated students still with the chance of a professional future ahead of them. The pair of would-be assassins — Samantha Altman’s Squeaky Fromme and Bella Bosco’s Sara Jane Moore, who targeted the life of President Gerald Ford — were super-entertaining and side-splittingly funny.

One more thing: The first appearance for “Assassins” on Broadway ended with a whimper, closing after 73 performances. But when the show was brought back in 2004, it won five Tony Awards including Best Revival of a Musical.

If you go: Through Aug. 6, with evening performances at 7:30 p.m. and 2 p.m. shows on Aug. 3-4. Tickets and information: http://www.collegelightoperacompany.com/. CLOC notes this about the show’s content: “All of these firearms are props, and cannot and will never be loaded with ammunition of any kind. Still, each one is carefully checked before each performance to ensure the safety of our company and our audience. Each gun shot you hear is a sound effect, programmed by our stage manager. This production contains themes of violence, death and sex. These characters use adult and occasionally shocking, harmful language chosen explicitly by the authors of this work.”

“Jerker”

By Shannon Goheen

Written by: Robert Chesley; directed by David Drake; presented by The Provincetown Theater

What it’s about: Two gay men living in San Francisco in the 1980s have repeated phone sex and fall in love, though they never meet. It’s a fascinating and poignant pornographic elegy to the men who went through the tragedy of AIDS before the medical world was prepared to handle it. Joe MacDougall as JR initiates late-night phone calls to Bert, played by Stephen Walker. There are 20 phone calls, to be precise, some sweet but most of them dirty.

See it or not: Don’t see this for-mature-audiences-only show with parents, children, or anyone with whom you would avoid having a hard-core sex talk. Otherwise, it’s a riveting, eye-opening, 90-minute drama with full-frontal nudity that’s never gratuitous or salacious. The only voyeurism that happens here is observing the growing love and impending doom between the two characters. The theater is set up as a “theater in the round” that offers a ring-side view of the two men engaging in intimate acts, unseen by each other but convincingly visible to the audience.

Highlight of the show: To comfort the ailing Bert, JR tells him a non-sexual, fantasy bedtime story. MacDougall leaves his bed for the first time in the telling of it and makes his way around the room. The best of humanity is on display in this intimate soliloquy and because of it, the audience is emotionally bolstered for the remainder of the unfolding drama.

Interesting fact: The timing of this production is either masterful, or just lucky. The Provincetown Theater had intended to produce “Jerker” sooner, but had to cancel because of the COVID-19 pandemic. The new timing adds another perspective: Although the AIDS epidemic took a heavy toll on the gay community, COVID-19 — another virus to which the human body has no resistance — has been making the rounds through the entire human population.

Worth noting: “Jerker” could be written off by prudes, used to denigrate the gay culture, or — as really did happen — prompt government officials to impose repression of sexual art. Judgmental dismissal of the behavior that made AIDS so devastating, though, ignores the fact that human behavior is rarely rational, but instead more responsive to feelings, attention and touch. The current pandemic is proof positive that risky behavior often takes precedence over caution.

One more thing: MacDougall and Walker play their roles so well that caring deeply for the success of their characters’ relationship and respecting their personal vulnerability is unavoidable. Watching “Jerker” is as intimate an experience as the viewer will ever get short of having the experience themselves.

If you go: 7 p.m. Mondays through Thursdays through Sept. 1, except Aug. 18, with an extra performance at 7 p.m. Aug. 19 at The Provincetown Theater, 234 Bradford St.; $40; provincetowntheater.org, Boxoffice@provincetowntheater.org, 508-487-7487. Proof of COVID-19 vaccination and masks are required.

‘Gary: A Sequel to Titus Andronicus’

By Paul Babin

Written by: Taylor Mac; directed by RJ Tolan; presented by Wellfleet Harbor Actors Theater

What it’s about: The curtain rises on a lavish banquet room strewn with corpses. The bodies are still warm, as the bloody events that conclude Shakespeare’s “Titus Andronicus” have only just played out. Gary, a clown, and Janice, a maid, have been tasked with cleaning up the mess, which mostly consists of bleeding the corpses and then pressing on what’s left of their stomachs so the farts fly out. The problem for Janice, who just wants to finish the job, is that Gary is more of a philosopher than a clown. His aim is to one day shed his clown costume and become a fool, for while clowns encourage idiots, fools “tease out our stupidity with brain.” Eventually joined by a midwife named Carol, who emerges from beneath the mound of corpses, the trio banter about numerous subjects, including Titus’s tragic end and the dream of a better tomorrow.

See it or not: It’s brilliant! Mac draws upon the raw materials of Shakespeare’s bloodiest tragedy to create an uproarious, sophisticated comedy. Who knew that scenes set in a room littered with bloody carcasses would have tickled my funny bone? Much of the credit goes to the performers, who deliver Mac’s hilarious dialogue with just the right comic touch. As Janice, AJ Clauss got a huge laugh at Friday’s performance when he facetiously asked Gary, “Ya think this is my first massacre?”

Highlights: Layla Khoshnoudi delivers a wickedly funny performance as the eponymous clown. Her performance is so affecting because she never condescends to the character. Despite the situation Gary finds himself in, I never pitied him, mostly because his optimism is so inspiring. While Janice can’t envision a better future for herself, Gary dreams of becoming a great fool who will slyly speak truth to power.

Fun fact: The play premiered on Broadway in 2019, starring Nathan Lane, Kristine Nielson and Julie White. It earned seven Tony Award nominations, including for Best Play.

Worth noting: The prologue is bloody hilarious … literally. It starts with Carol championing the virtues of violence: “So double up on savagery and war: To satisfy you multiply the gore.” Then, seemingly out of nowhere, blood squirts out of her neck. Despite her apparent attempts to control the hemorrhaging, streams of blood have stained the stage by the time Carol’s finished her soliloquy.

One more thing: You don’t have to have seen “Titus Andronicus” to enjoy “Gary,” but it helps. If you decide to revisit Shakespeare’s classic, I recommend “Titus,” Julie Taymor’s deliciously over-the-top 1999 film starring Anthony Hopkins as the ill-fated general and Jessica Lange as the scheming Tamora. Taymour takes liberties with the play while still capturing its inimitable tone and tenor.

If you go: 8 p.m. Tuesdays through Saturdays through Aug. 19 at Wellfleet Harbor Actors Theater, Outermost Performing Arts Center, 2357 State Highway Route 6; $25-$40 with discounts for seniors; students $15; 508-349-9428, http://www.what.org/.

‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’

By Sue Mellen

Written by: William Shakespeare; presented by The Cape Cod Shakespeare Festival in Chatham

What it’s about: This is one of the Bard’s most enduring comedies — with a capital ‘C.’ This trimmed-down version of “Midsummer” is a hilarious, 90-minute romp through a fairy-filled forest. It’s a mixed-up mélange of love found, lost and found again times two — well, three, if you count fairy king and queen Oberon (Reid Williams) and Titania (Isabelle Archer). Plus there’s a play within a play and, just for good measure, a spell that turns a character named Bottom (Chris Bailey) into a donkey-headed beast. And speaking of spells, a potion-laced magic plant is what sends the various lovers into a mixed-up frenzy of emotions. Whew!

It all begins when Theseus, Duke of Athens and Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons (Williams and Archer again) start to plan celebrations to mark their engagement. Theseus’s subject Egeus (Alan Rust) brings his headstrong daughter Hermia (Riley Means) to the royal couple to solicit their help in prompting her to marry his choice for son-in-law Demetrius (Sam Vana). But Hermia has other ideas: She is in love with Lysander (Christopher Andrew Rowe). And then there’s Helena (Arlene Bozich), whose heart yearns for Demetrius. In a plot to capture his affections, she tells him that his intended wife plans to escape to the local forest with her paramour. So Helena and Demetrius set out to shatter Hermia’s plans. And that’s when the fun really begins.

See it or not: Go for the chance to see one of the great comedic masterpieces of all time, and to laugh out loud for 90 minutes. Then enjoy the beauty and authenticity of the colorful costumes. And just to add a soothing touch to your night, bask in the gentle strains of music from violinist Shuga Ohasi.

Highlights of the show: How do you even begin to talk about highlights of one of the great comedic masterpieces in the English language? The show is so full of wit, wisdom and complex plot lines that it’s almost impossible to pull it apart. But here goes:

In the hands of director Robert Davis, managing director Terry Layman and artistic director Alan Rust, this production is just brimming with the kind of life, love and laughter that its author intended. The accomplished cast, some of whom are alumni of the decades-long program at the closed Monomoy Theatre in Chatham, expertly draw the audience members into the action and fun from the very beginning — holding them there until the hilarity ends.

While the cast is universally expert, a couple of performances seem to encapsulate the true meaning of fun. Bailey is a bundle of comedic energy as the donkey-headed Bottom, hee-hawing his way from one scene to the next. And Matt Werner is a scream in his dual roles as bellows mender Frances Flute and flighty female Thisbe (continuing a tradition of actors performing in drag way back in the Elizabethan era).

Fun fact: The show was first performed sometime between 1594 and 1596. The first performance is said to have been at the wedding of one of two royal couples, hence the Bard’s emphasis on love and marriage in the play.

Worth noting: The show is perfectly suited to its outdoor setting at Kate Gould Park in the center of Chatham, with stage lights coming on as the daylight fades. The audience is literally transported to the forest where most of the action takes place. This seems to be an example of why Shakespeare in the Park has become a staple of summer theater around the world.

One more thing: There is no seating on site, so bring chairs to enjoy this new endeavor. While Rust has said the group welcomes children to these shows to help start a tradition of bringing young people to the theater, consider their age and attention span and monitor their behavior. Loud youngsters can be distracting to the audience in this setting.

If you go: 7 p.m. Aug 2 and 4, Kate Gould Park, 15 Chatham Bars Ave., Chatham; free; www.ccsfc.org

‘Twelfth Night’

By Kathi Scrizzi Driscoll

Written by: William Shakespeare; co-directed by Terry Layman and Christopher Andrew Rowe; presented by the inaugural Cape Cod Shakespeare Festival in Chatham

What it’s about: This is a 90-minute, free outdoor adaptation of one of Shakespeare’s best-loved comedies, filled with wordplay, mistaken identity, pranks and confusion over love until it all turns right in the end. Viola believes her brother killed in a shipwreck, so assumes his identity to help the Count, who is wooing grieving Lady Olivia. Viola falls for the Count; Olivia falls for Viola dressed as male Cesario; and prim servant Malvolio is tricked into believing Olivia has fallen for him by a group of mischief-making friends who stir the confusion and add jokes and music to the scene.

See it or not: This new endeavor by alumni of the former Monomoy Theatre is a wonderful way to spend an evening, sitting outside by the gazebo at Kate Gould Park in downtown Chatham. In repertory with “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” through Aug. 4, this show was the company’s opener Tuesday night after weather concerns canceled Monday, and more than 200 people brought chairs and blankets to watch, with more stopping by and standing at the back when they happened upon the entertainment.

Highlights: The entire cast is talented and entertaining, led by Riley Means as Viola; Isabelle Archer as Olivia; co-director Rowe as the Count; Arlene Bozich as clever servant Maria; Chris Bailey as not-drowned brother Sebastian; Matthew Werner as silly suitor Sir Andrew Anguecheeck and Bernard Cornwell as rowdy Toby Belch with his mischievous band. Top comedy points, though, have to go to Reid Williams as fast-talking and outrageous servant Malvolio (hilarious in front of the curtain or lit up behind it); and Eddie Cruz Jr. as fool Feste, who has a strong and versatile singing voice (played off well with guitarist Sam Vana) and top comic timing.

Fun fact: Most members of the cast are professional actors or acting students brought in for this new endeavor, many alumni of the former Monomoy Theatre or affiliated with the University of Hartford that long sponsored the company. In other roles are Cornwell, an international best-selling author who lives in Chatham; Alan Rust, company artistic director who held that role for decades with Monomoy; and frequent local actor Scott Hamilton, who manages Chatham Jewelers.

Worth noting: A gorgeous backdrop reminiscent of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, with hundreds of people depicted in the gallery to watch the show, comes courtesy of Chatham artist Carol Odell. Her husband, metal sculptor Tom Odell, designed the pipelike frames that hold up the three curtains, and that set has to be taken down after every performance , to make way for other park activities, including the beloved Friday night band concerts.

One more thing: Get to Chatham early if you’re looking for parking, especially if it’s the same night as a Chatham Anglers baseball game. It’s a busy downtown on a summer night, but once you get to the park, there’s all kinds of space to spread out chairs and with the incline, most seats should have a good view. There’s also space for kids to run around as needed, so this is a great way to introduce all ages to the theater as part of summertime entertainment.

If you go: 7 p.m. July 28, Aug. 1 and 3, in repertory with “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” on other weeknights, with July 30-31 and Aug. 6 a potential rail dates; at Kate Gould Park, between Main Street and Chatham Bars Ave; free; https://ccsfc.org.

‘Mame’

By Sue Mellen

Written by: Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee, with music and lyrics by Jerry Herman; presented by the Chatham Drama Guild

What it’s about: This musical tells the story of the irrepressible, irresistible, always brash and boisterous Mame Dennis (Bridget Williams), whose party-filled existence is upended by the arrival of nephew Patrick (Toby Goers), who is quite suddenly in her care. To make matters more complicated, it’s 1929 — and you know what that means: The stock market is about to sink to the bottom of the sea, taking Mame’s little nest egg with it. She tries her hand at a number of money-making gigs — all with disastrous results. In one cute vignette, she takes a bit part in actress and best friend Vera Charles’ (Deb Mahaney) Broadway show, only to fall off a crescent moon on the set. But there is possible romance in the offing, thanks to the appearance of wealthy southern gentlemen Beauregard Jacket Pickett Burnside (Glenn Starner-Tate).

See it or not: Go for the Jerry Herman music and the fun of seeing one more version of the character Rosalind Russell and Angela Lansbury made famous. As Pam Banas — who is director, choreographer and also takes on two roles — notes before curtain, it’s no small task for a community theater like the guild, working with all volunteers, to take on such a full-bodied show. (There are 22 characters and 14 musical numbers.) As a result, though, delivery of lines and lyrics is uneven, with projection through the theater sometimes suffering. Exceptions are the strong voices and bold deliveries of Williams’ Mame and Devin Massarsky as a grown-up Patrick.

Highlights of the show: Jerry Herman’s compositions are front-and-center, with Geraldine Boles as accompanist and musical director. Familiar tunes include “We Need a Little Christmas,” “Mame” and “Open a New Window,” with other parts of the score including “Moon Song” and “The Fox Hunt.” There is also a cute bit where Mame and Vera display their somewhat tattered affection for one another in the number “Bosom Buddies.”

Fun fact: The Auntie Mame character is based on the real-life aunt — Marion Tanner — of Edward Everett Tanner III. Author Tanner also wrote under the pseudonym Patrick Tanner, and his book “Auntie Mame: An irreverent escape” was one of the best-selling books of the 20th century.

Worth noting: Costumes (also thanks to Banas) are authentic and sometimes really fun, including a bright red, Asian-style, tunic-like top that Williams sports in one scene.

One more thing: The growing relationship between Patrick and Mame is central to this story: Hence the name of the non-musical version, “Auntie Mame,” and the song “My Best Girl” that Patrick sings to his auntie in this musical version. Other people whose lives Mame continues to mold and manage include housekeeper Agnes Gooch (Amy Jane Kneppers), who finds herself pregnant and unwed (a big deal in 1929).

If you go: 7:30 p.m. Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays and 4 p.m. Sundays through Aug. 20 at Chatham Drama Guild, 134 Crowell Road; $25 general seating, $28 cabaret seating; 508-945-0510 or http://www.chatdramaguild.org/.

‘Mary Poppins’

By Sue Mellen

Written by: Julian Fellowes, with original music and lyrics by Richard M. Sherman and Robert B. Sherman, new songs and additional lyrics by Anthony Drew and George Stiles, co-created by Cameron Mackintosh, based on the stories of P.L. Travers and the Walt Disney film; presented by the Academy of Performing Arts.

What it’s about: For generations, the very mention of the name Mary Poppins has painted a picture of the “practically perfect” nanny who is loving and kind, while at the same time nobody’s pushover. (Consider the line: “I never explain anything.”) And there is, of course, something magical about her. That’s clear from the very start, when she appears out of thin air to rescue youngsters Jane and Michael Banks (Mia Nadeau and Jack Baumrind) from a succession of inept and ineffective nannies.

It soon becomes clear that Mary (Jennifer Almeida) has descended from the heavens to rescue not only the Banks children but the whole Banks household from the dark cloud that has been hanging over 17 Cherry Tree Lane in not-so-merry Old London. With the help of bankside philosopher and erstwhile chimney sweep Bert (Mark Roderick) — and a healthy dose of music and dance — the umbrella-toting Mary teaches everyone in the Banks household (and of course the audience) the true meaning of life.

See it or not: Adults would enjoy for the trip back in time if you remember the Julie Andrews/Dick Van Dyke movie version, and bring the kids to experience the true meaning of supercalifragilisticexpialidocious for the first time.

Highlight of the show: It’s turning out to be a very musical summer in the Cape Cod theater world, and this offering is a perfect example. Director/choreographer Judy Hamer, choreographers DJ Kostka and LeVane Harrington, and musical director/accompanist Chris Morris have put together a show that is filled with the joyous song-and-dance numbers we all remember from the 1964 flick. There’s “A Spoonful of Sugar,” “Let’s Go Fly a Kite,” “Step in Time” and “Jolly Holiday.” Then there are some numbers new to the stage version, including “Being Mrs. Banks” and “Practically Perfect.”

A large ensemble of youngsters joins Almeida, Roderick, Nadeau and Baumrind for several numbers, giving the impression that all of London is rejoicing in the Mary Poppins revolution. “Jolly Holiday” is a particularly fun number, as Almeida and Roderick treat the audience to some soft-shoe hoofing that is like an extra “spoonful of sugar.”

Fun fact: The 1964 film version garnered 13 Oscar nominations and won the Best Picture award. In fact, it was the only Disney film to earn that award during Disney’s lifetime.

Worth noting: Randy Doyle and Rachel Hischak play off one another convincingly as workaholic George Banks (a banker of course) and his doting wife Winifred. And Nadeau and Baumrind are a joy as the slightly-mischievous-but-always-lovable Banks children. Baumrind is simply adorable as the quip-slinging youngster — complete with British accent. And just for good measure, there is the delightfully evil Miss Andrew, played by Denise Page.

One more thing: All the costumes seem authentic, with Almeida’s particularly pleasing. She IS Mary Poppins in her ¾-length red coat and full skirt, and the picture of Victorian elegance in her sparkling white dress and picture hat for “Jolly Holiday.” Karen Hepinstall, Emma Taylor, Sam Roderick, Alex Savery and Judy Hamer make up the costume team.

If you go: 7 p.m. Aug. 4-6; 2 p.m. Aug. 7 at the Academy Playhouse, 120 Main St., Orleans; $30 adults, $20 under age 16; 508-202-1952, www.academyplayhouse.org

‘Victor/Victoria’

By Jay Pateakos

Written by: by Blake Edwards, with music by Henry Mancini, lyrics by Leslie Bricusse, other music and lyrics by Frank Wildhorn; presented by Cotuit Center for the Arts

What it’s about: A down-on-her-luck soprano searches for work and redemption in 1930s Paris and finds both by disguising herself as a man dressing in drag and wowing audiences while being a woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman – until the day of reckoning comes.

See it or not? See it for sure. The 1982 original movie, made famous by Julie Andrews, James Garner and Robert Preson was ahead of its time with its themes and adapted into a musical in 1995. The musical works to highlight poverty, lack of gender equality, transgender struggles and the difficulty in just being yourself, or who you really want to be. This musical is timelier than ever.

Highlights of the show: Perhaps the most outrageously humorous performance goes to Marie-Josee Bourelly, who plays the vivaciously loud and sarcastic Norma Cassidy, ruler of the house in “Paris Makes Me Horny” and “Chicago, Illinois.” Lead Talia Hankin, who plays Victoria Grant, shows off her stunning voice in “Le Jazz Hot,”, “If I were a Man” and the haunting “Crazy World.” Also a highlight is Alex Valentine, who plays Carroll “Toddy” Todd, a woman trapped in the body of a man who works magic in “Trust Me” and “You & Me.”

Fun fact: The cast is mostly composed of great local talent with a few New Yorkers sprinkled in, including Talia Hankin as Victoria and Marie-Josee Bourelly as Norma as well as the lighting and stage designers.

Worth noting: Director Celia Krefter, a 21-year-old Mashpee native and recent Colombia University graduate who now lives in New York, is making her Cape Cod directorial debut with “Victor Victoria” – at the same theater where she performed her first-ever theatrical performance in “It’s a Wonderful Life” back in 2010.

One more thing: Director Krefter notes that “Victor/Victoria” is a celebration of queerness that she and the cast and crew pushed the boundaries on to extend that celebration of expression to various aspects of the production, including sets, lighting, costumes and more.

If you go: 7:30 p.m. Aug. 4-6, and 3 p.m. Aug 7; at Cotuit Center for the Arts, 4404 Falmouth Road (Route 28); $40 with discounts available; https://artsonthecape.org/

‘The Ballad of Bobby Botswain’

By Carol Panasci

Written by: Jonathan Fielding and Jason Lambert; presented by Harbor Stage Company

What it’s about: This world premiere may be about the most interesting evening of theater you’ve seen in a long time! Like a buddy comedy on hallucinogens, the unconventional plot revolves around the search for the notorious Bobby Botswain, a combination of a pharmaceutical Robin Hood and a magical mystic. The show’s two characters navigate morals, ethics and unlikely friendship on their journey.

See it or not: Absolutely see it. This is a remarkable experience, an indescribable delight. The production values are superb, from set design (Seancolin Hankins) to sound (designer J Hagenbuckle) and lighting (designer John Malinowski). The script  is rapid-fire, engrossing, engaging and surprising. The acting and physicality are seamlessly calibrated. The show offers philosophy and pathos with a dollop of outrageous, laugh-out-loud humor.

Fun fact: Fielding is a co-founder of Harbor Stage and Lambert, a friend since graduate school, has been a longtime collaborator and previously performed at Harbor Stage in “Artist Descending a Staircase”  and “Glengarry Glen Ross.” 

Worth noting: Fielding has said he and Lambert first talked about writing the play before the Affordable Care Act was passed in 2010. But Fielding has said the issue of unequal access to health care has become just as topical in the wake of the pandemic.

One more thing: The Harbor Stage Company consistently lives up to its slogan “A theater by the sea that’s right on the edge.” It’s refreshing to have a company that takes righteous risks.

If you go: 7:30 p.m. Thursdays through Saturdays (plus Wednesday, Aug. 3) and 5 p.m. Sundays through Aug. 6 at Harbor Stage Company, 15 Kendrick Ave., Wellfleet; $25; http://www.harborstage.org/

‘Mamma Mia!’

By Shannon Goheen

Written by: Music and lyrics by Benny Andersson & Björn Ulvaeus and some songs with Stig Anderson; book by Catherine Johnson; directed and choreographed by Dani Davis; presented by Cape Rep Theatre.

What it’s about: A wedding is approaching on a Greek island and bride-to-be Sophie Sheridan (Chelsey Jo Ristaino) conspires to discover the identity of her real father. After finding her mother’s diary with various intriguing entries, she sends invites, unbeknownst to her mother, to three men who may have been her father. They all arrive on the island and cause mayhem by each eventually claiming to be her father and shocking Sophie’s mother, Donna (Trish LaRose) as she encounters the three past lovers. At least 24 songs from the 1970s band ABBA help tell the story that concludes with a heartwarming twist.

Highlight of the show: The choreography is outstanding. It’s high-octane dancing frequently laden with sexual innuendo, and the mostly young acters are well-suited for the near-constant action. Kudos to director/choreographer Dani Davis for envisioning and designing this two-hour shivaree that is so buoyant it’s a struggle to keep one’s mouth shut and not belt out the ABBA hits along with the spirited cast.

Fun fact: ABBA, a Swedish pop band formed in 1972, became one of the best-selling bands in the history of popular music. Written in 1999, “Mamma Mia!” is in the top 10 longest-running Broadway productions and is still running in London’s West End. Save some money and see it at Cape Rep. It’s almost certainly every bit as entertaining!

Worth noting: Ristaino and LaRose perform the most songs and have terrific voices. Nick Nudler (Sky) occasionally plays his guitar along with the singers, as does Madison Mayer (Lisa), and it adds a lot to the music’s beauty. The ensemble pieces are particularly fun, such as when heads pop out of every door and window on the set during the chorus of “Mamma Mia!” Another great moment is the crazy, campy confusion of wedding preparations set against a duet of “Take a Chance on Me” by Maura Hanlon (Rosie) and Ari Lew (Bill).

One more thing: The shows are on the outdoor stage but the indoor main stage is ready (masks required) with a working set in case of rain. Bug repellant is available, free of charge, but if you are a biting-bug magnet, be sure to cover up. The lift you’ll get from “Mamma Mia!” is worth the effort so don’t hesitate to make your reservations.

If you go: 7 p.m. Tuesdays-Sundays through Aug. 14 at Cape Rep Theatre, 3299 Main St. (north side of Route 6A), Brewster; $40 (group rates and student rush tickets available); or 508-896-1888 or https://caperep.org/.

The post what critics say about musicals, comedies on stage appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.

Hutchinson: Why trading Deebo Samuel could make sense for the 49ers

“An early first-round pick can provide a premium talent or an opportunity to trade back and acquire more picks. With Alex Mack’s future in question, they could move for the likes of Iowa center Tyler Linderbaum, an elite edge prospect, or take an early swing at replacing Samuel with the various receiving prospects in this draft.

If Samuel doesn’t want to stick around and the right offer comes in, the 49ers could re-tool for very cheap and add a heap of talent that matches up with Lance’s timeline. As incredible as Samuel is, it’s an enticing thought.”

NFL insider: Jets likely preparing offer for Deebo Samuel that 49ers “can’t refuse”

“There have been rumors tonight that I cannot confirm that the Niners have told Deebo Samuel that he can seek a trade,” Pauline told Trey Wingo on Tuesday (h/t TheSFNiners). “I don’t know about that, but I know this: The feeling inside the league is the Niners are listening to offers for Deebo Samuel, and the Jets are going to put together such a massive package for Deebo Samuel that the Niners are not going to be able to turn away. Everyone says that Kyle Shanahan would like to keep Deebo Samuel, but again, the feeling is what the Jets will offer—as they said in The Godfather—the Jets are going to make the Niners an offer they can’t refuse.

Panthers remain possible post-draft trade option for Jimmy G

“We’ll evaluate the whole landscape to see what’s out there,” Panthers general manager Scott Fitterer said Tuesday during a press briefing. “We’ll talk directly to different teams. We’re not just sitting here looking solely at the draft. We’re looking at every option.”

Why last-second draft deal likely only scenario 49ers trade Deebo

“Expect Samuel to