My sister and brother-in-law are visiting from Phoenix. And with our various sentiments and involvements, it made other sense to journey across the Golden Gate Bridge and see an evening performance of a play. Staged in an outdoor amphitheater, the production deals with solitary confinement in prisons. Susie works in presence part time, teaching drama and movement to inmates. My brother-in-law Andy is a retired professor of criminology. This was a natural.

However, when my sister first invited me, I turned her down. Why? Because I was feeling very anxious. Anxious about what? Going out at night to somewhere new and different. Being driven by someone not my wife. And why all the agoraphobia? I don’t really know. Except that I take it for granted at this stage of existence that trauma from my earlier life is oozing out of me at all times. 

That said, our journey began on a comic note. We left in plenty of time, driving toward our first destination, the New Delhi Restaurant in San Rafael. Feeling anxious and therefore somewhat distracted, I had plugged the restaurant’s name into my phone. As we near San Rafael, I activated the voice driving instructions. Andy began following them, and then it became clear that all was not well. Checking the phone, I realized that we were being guided to the New Delhi Palace, a different Indian restaurant back in San Francisco.

It must be said that I realized my error. That being flustered and embarrassed and feeling increasingly old, I made another series of digital faux pas. Doing another web search, I found the right restaurant, pressed directions and listened to another voice tell us to turn right here, go 300 yards and go left there, etc. But there was yet a second voice, periodically telling us to do exactly the opposite. It was the first set of vocal directions rolling off the phone, while the other set of directions also voiced its instructions. I considered quite seriously throwing the phone out the window. Reality seemed to be conspiring against me. By the time we found the restaurant, an astonishing 90 minutes had gone by. As the crow flies, we were probably less than 15 miles from home. Never mind.

But I am here to tell you that this particular Indian restaurant in San Rafael was a COVID-19 dream come true. The center of the place had a large retractable roof. So on this mild early autumn night, at 6:30 in the evening there was plenty of natural light, abundant circulating healthy air and wonderful food. Saag, chicken tikka, dal, nan and papadams, if you wanted to know.

And the outdoor theater on the campus of Dominican University proved to be just minutes away. I was relieved to have the place close and easy to find. But I say “relieved” in the sense that a person with mild autism may describe relief at having minimal human interaction. Objectively, there was nothing to be relieved about. But I am feeling unusually vulnerable these days. And this is a physical sense. My wheelchair will break down. My aches and pains are pressing upon me from all sides. There are threats out there. And so on.

Anyway, we had come to see a play. Which proved to be an “immersive” experience, with actors portraying prison guards yelling at everyone. With four prisoners in four solitary confinement cells yelling at each other. In the course of 90 minutes, one of the latter commits suicide by hanging. One is released only to find himself staring at the walls of his brother’s home. There’s a hunger strike. There’s hope.

For me, the latter was in short supply throughout. I wanted to be at home. Where things are safer and more secure. Where I know where I am. And I don’t want to be dismissive about the play and its theme. There was something overpowering in its physicality that stayed with me. As for immersive theater experiences, maybe I am too old. When I was born Bertolt Brecht was still expounding on his “smokers’ theatre” in which the audience was encouraged to be at a distance so they could think. Now this idea has moved 180°, and we are supposed to be as close and involved as possible. I don’t know. As I say, I am feeling vulnerable. Which is a way of dancing around my sense of death. Not that I am going to die, but that the end feels tangible. And why not? I am on 75 years old. With or without trauma, this is a fact. And it’s good to be home.