For alisa

This is Tiny, leaving a glittery rock near a pair of angel wings for Alisa.

Can I tell you about my friend Alisa?

The first time we met, we were both trying to speak French, which is strange, because I don’t think either of us recall a single word of it - unless it’s followed by the word “fries.” But that’s how it happened - in the basement of a renovated building on Main Street. We had both been hired to work on an obscure 1920’s musical. I sat next to her on the bench of a poorly tuned piano, me trying to decipher French lyrics and phrases like “kadooka” and “bees knees”. She made that piano work and sang a song about dusting the furniture in a way that made housekeeping seem cool.

She made everything cool.

Everything. 

I didn’t know her well, but I knew I wanted to.

We had just finished up the musical at Christmastime, and Alisa and her sisters were headlining a show in a nearby city. I went to be supportive. I didn’t know she could sing. I mean I knew she could sing about French housekeeping and broken model-T cars, and bees knees. But I didn’t really know. She stepped out on stage and sang “Oh Holy Night”. It was the first time that the sound of a human voice had brought me to tears. It was that beautiful.

Nothing compared to Alisa’s voice. If Pat Benetar and Bruno Mars had a child, and then that child married an an entire choir of angels and they had a kid, that kid’s voice might be almost as good as Alisa’s. Almost. 

Fast forward three years. A new show - a new choreography gig - a teen rock musical. Did I have any ideas for a musical director? Yes. Yes I did. We spent the summer together - Alisa and I behind the stage, our kids on it. Her energy was tremendous, generous, encouraging, fun. She was the coolest adult I’d ever met, and I still wanted to be just like her when I grew up. 

So when I had this crazy idea - this idea for a rock and roll class, a place where kids could become empowered through dance and music and microphones and friendship, I could only envision it with one person.

The conversation went like this, “I have an idea. It’s a little crazy, but I know it will work. BUT I only want to do it with you. If you don’t want to do it, I won’t feel bad, but I don’t want to do this with anybody else - just you.”

She told me she wasn’t sure she could teach a whole class of kids. But of course she could, of course they loved her, of course she was absolutely perfect.

Of course she was. And it was every bit as fun as I’d imagined - not just for the kids - but for us.

For eight more years she loved and nurtured and trained these kids. She told them they could when they said they couldn’t; she made up harmonies on the spot when they needed a challenge; she brought them into a recording studio so they could live the dream; she made them cocoa and taught them how to rewire broken Christmas lights; she showed them how to strum ukuleles without looking like their hands were “dead fish”; she found their vocal sweet spots and the strength in each kid. We could switch gears with a look, I knew when she was in charge, she knew when I was the boss, it was easy, effortless, fun. Teaching with her was my favorite part of every week.

But . . .if I had to tell you what my favorite part of the past eleven years is, it would be the time we spent at kitchen tables and taco bars and crummy restaurants with spinach artichoke dip - times when we were both at the opposite ends of the same theater and I would text just one word, and she’d know exactly what it meant -times when we planned to actually eat, or get work done, and instead we just lived.

In the worst part of my anxiety, before even had a diagnosis, she sat me down and said this: “I was thinking about you last night. I was thinking about how easy it is for me to tell you to calm down, to not worry. It’s easy for me to say because I have all of this family and support and I’ve never known life without it. And then it hit me that you’ve never known life with it - you’ve never had the safety net I have, and so I am going to be that person for you. I’m doing that.”

It wasn’t an offer, it was a declaration - I’m doing that.

“I am helping you with Punk’s graduation party. This is when you should have it.”

“I am staying with your kids so you can be at Mayo with Rick.”

“I am willing to be the guardian of Tiny if something happens to you guys.”

“I am buying an old church, because your basement is getting too small for us, and we are moving our business into it.”

“I am moving your dryer and getting all of the stray socks out from under there because that shit can cause a fire.”

“I’m doing that.”

I’m doing that.

Alisa died on July 7. She was diagnosed with inoperable stage four cancer in late January, and six months later she was gone. 

So last week, when we sat in her bed holding hands - and both of us knew this was the end, both of us knew there was no more time for tacos, ukuleles, or anything but the tears and the most important words, I made my promises to her. They were not offers. They were declarations. 

She said, “I’m counting on you. You deliver. When you say you’ll do something it gets done.” 

For now, I’m not ready to share what those things are, but I can tell you, “I’m doing that.”