The sounds of retching yanked me back to the present.

"Barf-ola! Look, Jimmy, the sign says 'vomitory'"

Jimmy responded by sticking his finger deep into his mouth and manufacturing a realistic gag.

I had been giving tours of The Lyceum Theater for almost two years, and every time I took a group through the "voms" someone called attention to the sign that read "Vomitory." Preteen boys were the worst. They had little interest in touring one of the finest old playhouses on the East Coast, and delighted in the distraction of bathroom humor.

I loved words and enjoyed educating the masses to the fact that even if "vomitory" and "vomit" came from the same root, they didn't mean the same thing. "Vomitory," I said, in my best school teacher voice, "is an aperture through which matter is discharged. In this case we, or the patrons who attend shows here, are the matter. The exit tunnels under the seating are called vomitories."

"Looks like an old covered walkway to me," Jimmy didn't know when to shut-up.

I rolled my eyes and abandoned the lesson.

The Lyceum mimicked the style of the old Greek amphitheaters. The lines of the architecture gave me chills, while those around me checked their watches and whispered about where to eat lunch. No one in this bland lump of humanity cared to flex their intellect, or to seek enlightenment, let alone to listen to the archaic snips of knowledge I liked to share.

A strike of metal upon metal echoed around me and the entire stage went black.

"Stay calm everyone. Please don't move, I'm sure that…"

A small flashlight beam swirled around my feet and skittered up my body landing on my left breast.

"Alex, The Great? That you? You got a tour down there?"

I hated the nickname. Only the crew called me that. The voice, and the insolent beam, came from a catwalk thirty feet above my head.

"One of my guys must have thrown the disconnect switch. We're changing house lights."

"You're not supposed to be working now." I tried to control my anger, but stupidity like this got people killed.

The lights flooded back. My group blinked like a bunch of stunned owls.

"If we'd been on the stairs someone could have gotten hurt."

"No harm, no foul."

I couldn't fight with him in front of everyone, but the incompetence of modern man's work ethic made me want to scream. The gladiators that played in my fantasies were always educated, capable, specimens whose lives depended on knowing the difference between right and wrong. Why were there no men like that around today?

"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit."

I turned toward the voice that echoed my own sentiments.

"I'm sorry to be late." The man who wandered out of the vom held a note pad and a quill pen. He wore a white tunic, the type my father is ashamed to admit that he wore in the sixties. Despite the breach of fashion etiquette he exuded culture and class.

I forgot the inept electrician and addressed our new addition. "Welcome to The Lyceum."

He gave a little bow and took a place toward the back of the group. His aristocratic profile did not escape me, and I hoped that he'd enliven the discussion with a question or two, but he just listened and scribbled.

I pointed out the fly loft, and showed how sandbags were used to balance the loads of scenery making it possible for one stagehand to move heavy pieces in and out. Then I walked my group up to the followspot platforms, and explained in great detail about the origin of the friezes on the dome.

By the end of my shift, my feet hurt. I had given three tours, not unusual for a Sunday, but lately it made me more and more tired, and left me less and less satisfied. Back in the staff lounge, I slipped out of my black pumps and slacks and pulled on denim shorts and sneakers. "Alexandra, people will think your fifteen if you keep dressing like that." My mother greeted me with these words whenever I went home. I no longer bothered pointing out that the laugh lines on my face guaranteed no one mistook me for a teenager anymore even if I still qualified as a student.

I had accrued two BA's, the one in Business Administration that my father made me endure, and the one in Theater that I got under the cloak of night school. Then I collected a Masters in Roman History, and was now studying Greek Literature. "You might be married if you didn't spend so much time in the library." Another pearl from mother's lexicon rang in my ears as I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulder.

The walk from The Lyceum took me to a square dotted with benches tooled with wrought iron scrollwork. I sat down to study in the fresh air. I didn't always cloister myself indoors with my books.

When he appeared next to me, I started, and immediately armored myself in "sorry, not interested" responses. When I saw his face, my rebuffs evaporated. With no notepad as a shield his eyes bore into me.

"You look different out here," he said, focusing for along time on my sneakers, before his gaze traveled up to meet mine.

"I do?"

"Sunshine makes you appear…"

I hoped he'd say more alive, joyful, like a flower in spring.

Instead he said, "older."

I flinched.

"See, that's what's wrong with women from your country. Age is not an insult."

"No, of course not."

"If I had said those half-pantaloons make you look fat, then you might have cause to bristle."

I bristled. "Where exactly are you from?"

"Aways." He fluttered his hand through the air indicating Cleveland, Kalamazoo, or around the corner, I couldn't be sure which.

"You took a lot of notes."

His face showed surprise. "You noticed me? Back on the tour?"

I nodded.

"Hmmm…that's too bad. I hoped to blend in."

"Why?"

"Good question!"

I felt like I was back in class being congratulated for broaching a valid train of thought.

He continued. "Why would anyone want to conform to the gum-chewing, plaid shirt wearing, sea of humanity you have here? I never dreamed that would ever be my intent."

"But, you said…"

"Goals change. We make sacrifices, even impale our own sensibilities on a spear for a greater good."

"Ah," I said, thinking that only madmen steered initial conversations toward impalings.

He smiled a knowing smile. "No great genius has ever existed without some touch of madness."

"What???" I felt sure I hadn't voiced my fears aloud.

"You seem to have a feel for the past." His eyes continued taking their inventory, and for a minute I thought he might poke me to check for ripeness or moral turpitude. "How do you put up with the disrespect?"

I shrugged. "It's not so much disrespect, but disinterest. You can't force people to care or to listen."

"Hmff! In my day we would have shackled those little beasties making the retching noises."

"Your day? I bet you're my age, maybe a year or two older."

"You mean I only look forty? How delightful!"

I'd left myself wide open for that stab. "I'm twenty-nine," I said quietly, "not that you care."

"But I do care, I even listen. Tell me anything, and I'll be a better audience than you have ever had."

"I'm not looking for an audience." I stood up.

"You can’t leave. I came all this way to find you."

"Two blocks from the theater isn't that far, and I didn't ask you to follow me."

He stroked his beard, which I now noticed glimmered with the most divine copper highlights. They held me mesmerized, unable to leave.

"You thought I was the only interesting person on the tour, and wished I'd ask a question because you suspected I might have more than air between my eardrums-- a correct summation, by the way. In fact you were sitting here now thinking how lonely it is being you."

"That's ridiculous!"

"I don't think I got it wrong."

I felt my cheeks heat up. Just the heat of the day, I told myself unwilling to admit that this stranger could command a physical reaction.

"What do you want from me, oh wise one?" I asked, not restraining my sarcasm.

He chuckled. "How direct." He stared off past a group of girls gossiping over ice cream cones. "I need to go back very soon, and I'd like to take you with me."

I shook my head, trying to make his words make sense.

"Please consider the offer. As your people say, 'you owe me,' at least that much. You did summon me here telepathically."

I had heard enough weirdness. I started walking, taking fast, determined, strides. I remembered from some self-defense class that you had to be decisive, show no fear, no hesitation. After a minute I turned and looked over my shoulder to see if he was following me. The bench was empty.

The next day in class my professor used the word "peripatetic." Not willing to give up my title as queen of etymology I went in search of the big reference books that they kept in the back of the library. A footnote on the definition peaked my curiosity. " Aristotle returned to Athens in 335 where he lectured twelve years in place that came to be known as the Lyceum. His style of lecturing involved walking around in a covered walkway, for which reason he was called "Peripatetic"(i.e., walking about)."

I turned to the A's wanting to learn more about Aristotle and his connection to place that shared a name with my theater. His portrait made me gasp. The artist got the copper in his beard just right.

I ran like a crazy woman toward the theater, hoping against hope that The Lyceum might still be my portal to the past.   

Copyright ©2001 Amy Coombs.  All Rights Reserved