Meg Fee - Places I Stopped on the Way Home: A Memoir of Chaos and Grace

M any years ago I found myself in a tiny, dimly lit restaurant in the West Village drinking red wine with the playwright Sam Shepard.

It was a year before I graduated from Juilliard with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Drama, a few more before I learned that red wine always leaves me on the bathroom floor, and more still before Id come to understand that writing would be the love of my life.

It was 2007 and Mr. Shepard was at Juilliard to receive an honorary doctorate. I was his escort for the day, which basically meant it was my job to make sure he wore the robe and hood correctly and didnt wander off on his own. The ceremony passed as expected and was followed by a champagne cocktail reception in the Presidents suitethe same place the Rolling Stones had kicked off their world tour two years before; Juilliard was a mostly odd and wondrous place. The administration had warned us that none of the honorees would likely stick around for the event, but on this occasion, everyone seemed game for a party. Which is how I found myself sitting next to the pre-eminent American playwright talking about things I now mostly cant remember.

At the start of the reception I stood at one end of the room, drink in hand, shifting back and forth on my feet. I badly wanted to speak to Mr. Shepard but was too afraid to approach him. Despite my being the person charged to look after him for the day wed said no more than five words to one another, and it was clear that he was deeply skeptical as to why I was there. Another student, a guy I didnt know terribly well, came and stood next to me. He watched as I squirmed, and listened as I mumbled something about Famous playwright and What must he think and Should I say something, and this boy half-laughing said, If you want to talk tohim, all you have to do is walk over there. How simple, how easy, how very much like jumping off a cliff! But courage requires first a decision, and then a leap. And so in a moment of rare grit I walked across the room and sat next to him. I laugh now because it is almost always in this way that good things happenone person walks towards anothera small, seemingly unimpressive act that gives way to better things.

The cocktail hour lasted several more, and when it was nearly done Mr. Shepard turned to me and asked if Id like to attend an event that eveningit wasnt a big thing, he was going to be introducing a film hed written many years before. Yes, I said, another leap. And so, hours later, I sat in the basement of the Rubin Museum on 18th Street. The guy at the front desk had let me in without asking for either my name or a ticketNew York is a tremendous place to be both young and a woman. I found an open seat, and a few minutes later Mr. Shepard stood at the front of the stage and read aloud from his screenplay of the film Paris, Texas. And then, just as the movie began, he took a seat, a single beer on the table in front of him. Twenty minutes into the film, when he pushed back his chair, I took a breath and followed him out. We nearly bumped into one another on the street. I didnt think youd come, he said smiling. I know, Im sorry, but here I am, I replied, a quiet laugh born of nerves and something ever so slightly sturdier than fear. Have you seen the film? Do you want to go back in, he asked? No, Ill watch it another time, I said. Which is how I came to spend a night in my early twenties drinking red wine in the West Village with one of the greatest American playwrights.

This is what I remember: Amy Winehouse played on the radio. We talked about horses, his farm in Kentucky, and his not being terribly keen on New York. And when we walked down the street he placed the palm of his hand against the back of my neck in a way that I have spent every day since hoping another man will do without me having to ask. When the night ended, he kindly walked me to the subway, and we never saw each other again.

What everyone wanted to know right after, as I attempted to describe the event of my