He leans forward. I smell red wine and that enticing cologne he puts on just before rehearsals. “Who do you love ?” he barks.

Dead silence in the room. I’m blank.

Julian steps back and glances at the others. “If you can’t love, you can’t act,” he says.

Everyone shifts around. We’re used to Julian’s lectures. Of course, I’m feeling more than exposed. I wrote the text and still can’t get right. I wrote it for Camille. She would “overflow” like Julian wants. She’d get that emotion the audience senses through body language and an innate sense of authority. I wasn’t supposed to take on the role myself. “Yearning,” Julian says. “Whatever you’ve got, make us feel it.”

“I understand,” I say. “I just need-”

“Who is it?” Julian insists. “A rock star? Movie actor? Politician? Who do you love?”

The others start shouting out names. They think they know me and argue amongst themselves. Someone says Peter Falk. Sad glances. I’m still blank.

“That settles it,” Julian says. “We’re going to a concert.”

No one asks which concert. Julian has been a die-hard fan of the group Burnt Yellow for over 25 years. He’s been known to miss opening nights to see this group perform. Jacques gives him flack for it. How could a director abandon his troop to go ogle his idols? I admire Julian. He takes Jacques’ smirking in stride. This group is important to him. I’m happy to find out why.

We are there, down in front, backstage passes in hand. Anticipation. Fans call out to the artists who bide their time out of sight. The effervescence becomes irresistible. I’ve never seen this group before, but I can’t wait till they hit the stage and ignite this crowd. They appear, and there I am, clapping as if they’re saviors because they are, in a way. On stage they change lives.

Julian’s fan friends know every song. They connect with the special intros, the glances exchanged during solos, the amusing quirks of the back-up band. Julian looks happy. I can see why. Luxuriant is how he describes this seductive, soul-tingling music, and he’s right. The combination of the voices, the magic her voice adds to his. They become more than a duo. Together, they produce layers of throaty richness and vibrancy that swell like desire to reach raging moments of climax then echo in the subsequent calm, as stirring as the lonely void of cathedrals and valleys. Love, Julian would call it. Love in overflow. We feel it, on stage, and here, in this audience soaring on shared wings. I’d call it momentum, hype, yearning, yes, but also dreading because there will be that one final song.

But for the fans it’s not over. For those of us with passes, it’s just the beginning. We go talk to these exhausted performers. I think of how I feel after one of our shows. No one raves over me, but people like to make contact. I appreciate the support. Here we wait in this backstage open room, a transit area for equipment and props. It’s empty now with only a handful of folding chairs. No one takes one. The artists wander in and kiss the fans they’ve known for years. They’re friends. The rest of us are just faces in the crowd, but the man and woman cast happy glances our way. Julian pulls us forward, one after the other. Jacques looks irritated. I wish I could make him relax. He’s spoiling Julian’s high moment. No, I take that back. Nothing could spoil this moment for Julian, and I feel happy for him. Pleasure no one can squelch. The artists talk about how much they appreciate Julian. We say the same. I go home feeling confused. I’ve seen lots of love, lots of overflow. I see what Julian’s getting at. Fans are people who love, people who love selflessly. He would probably argue that fan love is the purest form of love and exactly what an actor should be able to pull up on demand. He’s made his point. I just don’t feel anything. I don’t get being a fan…

… until that next morning.

There’s a whole flock of them, crowded in the front car of the Metro 14, the driverless subway train. They’re kids, eight or nine years old. They chatter then squeal as the train bolts out of Saint Lazare station. In a moment it veers to the left. The kids scream and fall on their male supervisor. I laugh, and he casts an apologetic look at the rest of us fans of the Metro 14. I’d never thought about it, but if those kids hadn’t beat me to the seat next to the front window, I’d be watching the train hurtle through the tunnel. I’d get a rush out of that near-death sensation of trains crossing at full speed, only a hand’s distance apart. We pull into Madeleine. The kids can hardly contain themselves. I think of Julian. It’s not love he wants. It’s fire. Of course, he would argue love is fire. He and I go around and around with our definitions. Call it what you want, love, passion. Julian wants whatever it takes to set us off. And he’s right, an actor has to love, and yes, why not get his love from seeing someone else love.

Now I wonder how Julian would feel about love at full speed on the Metro 14.

“Don’t answer her!” one woman yelled.

“Incredible! She can’t leave anyone alone!”

The need for the notebook continued. Madame Mauser brought a bag to carry it in and required an extra chair be placed at her side to put the things on. I learned the importance of this chair the hard way.

“You sit there,” the fat woman at the next table yelled. “Why should she get an extra chair?”

I didn’t mind walking twenty feet to find another chair. Of course, Colette called out after me. “Hey! Where are you going?”

Madame Mauser had a new question one night as she made her way around the room. “Excuse me, what table is this?”

The fat woman yelled. “Sit down! Enough is enough!” The younger woman, the one who’d had the stroke and felt so sorry to trouble people with her condition, remained gentle.  ”Oh dear, I’m afraid I don’t know the tables around here.”

Then one night the notebook stayed in Madame Mauser’s bag, and she stayed in her seat. “Mademoiselle, is this my wine?” she asked.

“Yes, it is,” I said.

Madame Mauser got back to names when her body started going. She staggered into the dining room that night with oozing leg bandages. Trembling from head to toe, she was still in a desperate need for facts. “Mademoiselle?” she called out. Colette ignored her and carried on with her story. “What’s her name?” Madame Mauser asked. I told her Colette’s last name for the 100^th time.

“Gauguin, like the painter,” I whispered.

“OK, she’s Madame Gauguin. Am I Madame Gauguin?”

“No, you’re Madame Mauser.”

“She’s Madame Mauser?”

“No, you’re Madame Mauser.”

“Is she my husband?”

She asked. I answered.  Colette continued her story. It came time for the soup. I helped Madame Mauser with her bib.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle,” she said with a smile. I’d never seen her smile, but for a brief moment she looked grateful and happy. I’d helped her do something her trembling hands could no longer do. In a flash life made sense. Then confusion returned. “She’s not my husband?”

I never got to snap that bib again.

As she seems greatly distressed, I agree to walk her to her room. Praise be to all higher powers, she knows where it is. Mystery reigns on arrival, however. The safety bar on her bed is up. How can this be?

“I want to lie down,” she says. I’m thinking a safety bar cannot be that complicated to undo. I try pulling the whole unit out. It doesn’t budge.  I look for a lever, knob, latch, catch.  I tug on the whole thing again. No luck.  I try sliding the main bar, nothing gives.

“I have four children!” the woman wails.

I can’t imagine how this fact could be so upsetting to her.  But what can I say? I take the disbelief angle. “Four, you say?”

“Yes, four!”

“How did you get out of bed?”  I ask.

She looks perplexed then wails again. “I moved here to have no worries!”

“Well, I am a bit stuck on this bar. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Four children!”

“I see.”

“There’s never anyone to help me.” She starts crying and I feel like a mechanical zero, not even capable of putting an old woman to bed.

“Four children,” she says. “And not one of them comes to see me.”

I vote we bring back “thou” to give ourselves a cozy way of addressing another person, a special person for whom we want to distinguish closeness, trust, and complicity. We could maintain our global stuffiness and reserve this familiar form for highly select, specific circumstances. Just think of the power we could load into this one little word. I suggest you try it.

Thou. Let it roll off your tongue and hang in the air. It’ll take some getting used to. I can only imagine how I’d feel, someone saying it to me in one of those brief moments of tension. I’d turn to leave. I’d feel his hand on my shoulder. He’d say, “Whither goest thou?” I’d shiver with that rush of exhilaration only a loaded word can produce.

Thou. Sigh. He thoued me.

We are not used to familiarity. “Thou” would feel like a long string of “Sweeties” and “Loves” and “Dears”. It would feel like first name usage but would carry more meaning than we could ever load into a name.

Thou. Imagine a special person saying it to you. It would feel like a tearful hug, two people reunited after decades. It would be banned from the workplace, except for after hours or with “special” colleagues. It would have such limited use we’d call it the magic pronoun or the connecting pronoun for its way of linking us to those who share our intimate space. Children would not use it on swing sets, for instance. We would only figure out its place in our lives when we would learn who and what we are. “Thou” would address the person as a naked soul. It would be uncouth to use “thou” with the postman or a telephone solicitor.

With “thou” back in use, we’d all know where we stood. “You” would have more weight. We could carry on using “you” as we’ve done for centuries, but now everyone would feel the note of respect.  And when those special moments would come, there would be no more guessing about the meaning of looks or nods. “Thou” would tell all.

To assume a role, he says, you have to understand your character’s high moments.  Most actors roll their eyes and remind Julian that he is not a youth center drama coach. We stick up for him and assure him it’s not just for the cocktail parties. “You need to ask a few probing questions,” Julian says, “learn where a person stands, discover his driving force. Is he passionate about his job, his hobby, his unique take on life? ” Thanks to him, we’re good at getting strangers to unleash their enthusiasm. Some of us could moonlight as head hunters.

People discuss the oddest things at cocktail parties. The other night the subject was amputation. The anesthesiologist was all excited because they’d managed to save the knee. “Don’t you see?” she said, “Below the knee makes all the difference to a more or less normal life.”

A few nights ago, I wandered among geophysicists. Some of them were discussing the continental drift. “Fifteen centimeters a year!” one said.

Another countered with “Ten, but there is evidence of twelve or thirteen.”

“Not in the Indian Ocean, Pierre.”

Where else could I find such a slow process evoking such incredible tension?

Philippe is a PhD physicist we invite along. We usually drop him in a dull corner of the room. He introduces himself then says, “I spend most of my time searching for life on other planets.”  We come back once he’s wound everyone up. No one can resist the idea long.

Some people don’t get invited to these cocktail parties. Take for instance the man who was asking for donations to “complete his reinsertion training.” Most of these ex-cons frighten me. This one, however, piqued my interest. I was dying to hear what he’d done to warrant “reinsertion,” but, to be polite, I asked him about his training. Bull’s eye. Light broke through his hardened expression. “I’m getting my permis poids lourd,” he said. He would be driving the biggest trucks on the European autoroutes,  driving for days at a time, power in motion, and far from the ennui of squeezing money out of people like me.

We also didn’t invite the man who took a peek at my car’s air-conditioning for free. He was a heavy equipment mechanic who was pleased to put a real car up on his lift. Of course, he had to adjust the thing so my car’s tires would hit the right place. You’d think I’d brought him a kitten to play with. Still, as please as he was to help me, this man eagerly took me to see his latest service order, a gnarly mass of machinery lying exposed in a pit.

We stood before the block with all its gears and rods, glaring at me, immodest and mocking. He looked like he could sink his teeth into it. “What’s, uh, wrong with it?” I ask.

“We don’t know,” he said, as if the answers to life’s deepest questions lay just a torque or two away.   ”It’s my responsibility,” he said, taking a deep breath, “to take the whole thing apart and clean it.”

I was sorry I couldn’t stay to watch.  I admit it. I’ve got the high moment bug.

I suppose this would be Julian’s high moment.

There is a certain hypnotic pleasure to the act. One or two gentle strokes, the ugly crease is gone, and you have straight, smooth cloth. We need this smoothness for some reason. Why? What do we get out of this repetitive, seemingly useless act? If every time I ironed, one starving child got fed, I’d iron every day. Imagine the sense of purpose we’d feel if we could iron out hunger, disease, inequality. We’d iron for peace. We’d iron to protect the ozone layer. Yes, I could understand ironing if there were a higher purpose to it. Have we defined smoothness as essential to the sedentary chapter of our existence? Ironing goes way back. Smoothness is neither a modern, nor a postmodern obsession. If the act of smoothing things weren’t in some way essential to our well-being, I’m certain we would have done away with ironing long before we put a man on the moon. We spend incredible energy on this ritual. We do love rituals. Religious practices are full of them. We go through all sorts of motions to honor values, ideas, and events that symbolize greatness. Ironing must be such a ritual. Does ironing satisfy a general need to smooth out our environment, like the cat patting your lap before it lies on it? Or does the pleasure we get from steaming away creases represent a cathartic release from the wrinkles we can’t smooth out? These untouchable wrinkles come in many forms. There are the ones you might find under your eyes, around your mouth. Some people have wrinkles on their knees. Imagine now if we could smooth out the wrinkles in our time management skills, our relationships, our abilities to hold our own at cocktail parties? Imagine if we could press all the icks of our lives back into a nice smooth line. That’s what we want, isn’t it? We want to smooth our lives into order, get into sync with the world, fit in with the standard codes. One swipe of an iron and imperfection disappears. It’s raw power, a sense of mastery, one hot fist against the universe, God in a bucket of steam.

OK, maybe ironing is just about not looking frumpy. I’m still glad I asked the question.

“You make me laugh,” I say.

“Don’t let me be selfish. Tell me about you,” she says.

Somehow we get started. I speak loudly and distinctly and choose my words carefully. My accent leads to misunderstandings. She soon takes over the story-telling.

Colette says she’s looking for work. I wonder why. She’s 93 and well-worn by the kilometers she’s put on her feet. She’s spent years walking the art galleries of Paris, visiting artists in their studios. She’s written volumes about these talented individuals she’s admired and cherished so selflessly.

“Are you bored?” I ask. I’d be bored living in a home full of people too deaf and confused for conversation, a sterile-looking place with a revolving door staff and only one or two employees who take time to listen.

“You visit Colette because she absolves your guilt, is that it?” I’ve heard all the theories. The truth is I visit Colette because she uplifts me. And sometimes I get her to smile. Seeing Colette smile is worth the pee on the floor I have to wipe up, the pants that need pulling up, and the moments of panic because the assault that happened 40 years ago has just resurfaced. “It’s OK, Colette! They’re gone. I’m here.” When Colette smiles, you get gratitude and reassurance. “You’re all right, kid.” You get contentment. She’s letting herself go. She’s letting you see her let go.

I repeat my question to Colette. “Why do you want to work?”

“So I can keep learning things,” she says.

We’re back to the beginning, to the simplest of definitions. It is our duty to understand.

Her final question is always the same. “You will remember to come back, won’t you?”

My answer is always the same. “How can I forget? You make me laugh.”

The man I dread always waits until the last minute. If the controllers turn up, he stays on the platform and plays for the pigeons. He’s easy to spot, dressed in brown with a broad-brimmed hat, pride trumping shyness with a smirk. I’d hate to hear him speak.

Come on, my ticket-sniffing friends! Where are you today? Maybe I can switch cars. Nope. The engines just went “clunk,” and here he is. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Screecher!

He starts off with Somewhere My Love. I usually like that song - if it’s played in tune with a dose of passion. It is difficult to explain what happens when the Screecher puts bow to strings.

He may be slightly off-key. That would explain the anxiety that courses through me by the time he reaches the “my love” of the first four notes. I can hear it now. Somewhere my love. Ayah! Maybe it’s the quality of the sound. Searing comes to mind. His bow hits a nerve that starts in my ear and ends in my coccyx. I get these full body twitches, and the worst is yet to come. As the train approaches La Defense, his sawing and gyrating reach an unbearable climax. He balances the violin on his chin and swipes the bow across the strings. The violin shrieks. It’s the shower scene in Psycho. It’s death - of today’s performance, at least, thank God. Soon he’ll be walking the aisle. I’ll hear his coin purse jiggling. I always shut my eyes. He must know me as “the Sleeper.” I wonder if I can force my heart to relax.

I tell Julian the Screecher is like a bad bottle of wine. Julian calls me a snob. I list all the modest wines I’m happy to drink- even without food - and explain that I usually love metro musicians. Julian says the Screecher is only trying to express himself. I explain that wine can go bad if not stored properly. It turns into vinegar not even fit for a salad. Julian asks me if I’ve ever tried playing the violin. He’s right about one thing, Julian. The Screecher loves playing. He looks proud as he prances around and strikes off his own renditions of time-worn tunes. Julian says I should think about where that violin has been. OK, I agree, the Screecher needs to play for us, but do I need to listen?

I hate it when Julian tries to set me straight.

Mel’s prepping my skin. She’s right. It does help me concentrate. Her fingers tingle every stub of my beard. Amazing what that does. I love this chair. A firm seat does help. If only I could be like Vincent and jump on any girl. Vincent loves explosive love. I love Celine. Correction. I’ve got twenty nanoseconds to fall in love with Celine- dear little vitamin D deficient, long everything Celine. She drops her briefcase on stage, and I’m supposed to tackle her. Yeah! But why? Maybe it’s the way she drops it. There’s authority in the way that designer bag hits the deck. “I’m here!”  Ah, Celine. If you were Yasmine, this would be easy. Celine! Just seeing you drop that briefcase! Nah- This is never going to work. And to think that paper Théâtre Ce Soir has made a big splash about us. The New English Theatre Opening Night. Journalists staying for dinner. Huh? Since when do we feed the press?

Vincent gets away with leaping across the stage. He’s a ticking love bomb. You work with him, you get kind of nervous. I could jump on Yasmine. She’s got much more… substance. I could jump on most anyone. At least, so I thought. I’ve got to want Celine for those legs that are way too skinny. How did they get that way? Doesn’t she ever walk up stairs? She’s got nice baseball breasts. They look like they might pop off if I grab them, and the rest - I think of a praying Mantis. I should focus on that fragile side, the earnestness. The praying mantis rubs its arms together, looks like it’s cooking up some wild insect scheme. We know how that turns out. That intensity. The mantis is a devoted, passionate little beast. Insect cannibalism, rituals of the truly devoted, et ‘op! Off it goes. I’m not getting anywhere.

I need passion… in Celine, in that damn briefcase. If it were a suitcase, it would be easier. I could do the “I’m sorry” thing. I’m good at being impulsively sorry. But it’s not a suitcase; it’s a chic lady’s briefcase. Focus on the corners, Luc would say. I’m focusing! It’s not passion. Luc is right. You focus, you get answers. I can’t just “horny dog” Celine. I know that’s what Julian wants, but I’m not convinced, so it’s not going to work. No, Celine has to set me off, but it’s got to be a quiet tension, something luring, something that strikes me the moment I see her because I know she’ll be hot. I need to feel how she’s going to writhe herself into hysterics, if only she could just let herself go. There’s got to be something about her, about the way she does what she does. I’ve got to feel this-

Mel’s looking at me funny. I’ve got to concentrate, to see her as- Yes! Like Mel, she knows what she wants. She’s intuitive. I should focus on this intuitive side. She acts on her impulses. She’d let herself go if only- I can’t concentrate. Think Celine. If only she weren’t ignored. Yes! She’s the person you see but don’t see. You love but don’t know it until- Hmm… That’s it! Until she starts exuding- Oh my, Mel. What is it? Raw desire? For me? This is working! She sees into me, reads my desire. She knows- God, I feel strange- She knows I’m seeing our clothes fly off, the two of us groping for a comfortable place, out of breath, each of us trying to- Oh Mel, yes! Don’t stop….

You learn what it means to be observant. Gilles tells you it’s time for dinner so you walk him to the dining room. Disaster. Someone has rearranged the tables. Gilles normally sits at a rectangular table in the far left corner by the window.  There is a round table there now. You guide Gilles to the nearest rectangular place. “No,” he protests, as he feels around. “Colette puts her napkin near the bread.” He picks up the basket and waves it in the air. A chunk of baguette flies into a soup bowl. “And I drink wine. There is no wine at this place.” He pats the place where the wine pitcher should be. You think you’re saved by the arrival of a staff member, but she turns out to be insensitive to Gilles’s spatial issues. If there are enough chairs, all is well. “Sit down, Gilles,” she says, and you cringe. You know Gilles will never sit down until he’s convinced. You have only to find Colette’s napkin and put it beside the bread basket. As soon as the staff member turns her back, you snag the first mass of cloth you find, but Gilles will not be fooled. “This is not Colette’s napkin. Where’s my table?” The staff member whirls around and yells, “Sit down!” As usual, she’s new. She doesn’t know that Gilles can’t hear her well-enough to obey, let alone take offense. Meanwhile, another resident arrives and wants the staff member to get Gilles out of her way. When the staff member ignores her, she shrieks. “I can’t get to my place!” The staff member has had enough. “C’est le bordel!” she grumbles as she charges out into the hall. You’re left alone to face the angry woman, Gilles, and the steady stream of other residents who arrive and expect you to remove the mysterious round table. “That doesn’t belong here!” they shout, one after the other.

Here’s where the contact comes in. Gilles is not an unreasonable person. All you have to do is explain what’s happening, directly into his ear. You know that Gilles will sit anywhere as long as you stay close enough so he can feel you. If he hears you, he’ll listen. In the end, he doesn’t care where he sits as long as he’s got company he can talk to, someone he’s looked forward to feeling, someone whose presence fills a void of confusion. You feel the same way. On entering Gilles’s space, you block out your own. You escape, and for a few minutes, you do nothing but connect. At some point, when you have to say goodbye, you wish everyone could be like Gilles, happy to do whatever, to go wherever, just so long as you’re with him, holding on.