Bereft

In 1977, I was part of a creative team at Pittsburgh Laboratory Theater. We were planning a production of The Ruling Class, and I was stage managing. The central character was played by Bingo O'Malley, who immediately became one of my closest friends. During the run of the play, I took over a bit part and had the sublime pleasure of doing '"The Varsity Drag" number with Bingo et al. Over the ensuing years, Bingo and I enjoyed my free passes to Pgh. Pirate games, studied sign language together, joined his large raucous Irish family for Sunday afternoon Steelers' broadcasts, went rafting down the Youghiogheny white water, formed a scene study group called Stage Left, Pittsburgh, which also produced a few plays. Those years were especially precious, as our splendid circle of friends packed so much enjoyment into the monthly meetings, which absolutely included good food, juicy gossip, occasional tears, and plenty of laughter.

Bingo was a gifted actor whose instinctive artistry created layered performances in every role he took on. He and I played a warped husband and wife in an absurdist nightmare by Boris Vian called The Empire Builders at the Lab Theater. Some years later, I directed him in The Subject Was Roses, during which he became ill with what turned out to be hepatitis. He refused to quit rehearsing, all the way through final dress. The play never opened. He nearly died.

I left Pittsburgh in 2000, focusing on raising my son and spending my parents' last years close by near Johnstown. I kept in loose touch with Bingo. When his sister Kathleen died unexpectedly, moments after a joyful reunion as Bingo returned from a stint in a Kentucky production, a mutual friend called and urged me to contact him. Bingo was devastated; he never could handle the idea of death. And Kathleen had been a rare joy of a sister and best friend. Once, when I bought my first house, I had a pre-moving-in party at a time when Bingo had (shockingly) shaved off his beard to play the Pittsburgh artist John Kane on PBS.  Kathleen was enjoying the party, and spent some minutes talking to a new friend before she realized he was actually her brother, unrecognizable without the whiskers!

I saw Bingo a couple of times more when I would happen to be in Pittsburgh. His theater career flourished, including a tour of Ireland in a Brian Friel play, which must have been an ecstatic experience for him. I last saw Bingo at a one woman show by our mutual friend Barbara Russell. Being with him was as stimulating and satisfying as ever. Intervening years vanished and we caught up on each other's news with gusto. His charm and playful manner had never dimmed, and I distinctly recall telling him how much I loved him as we hugged goodbye. Somehow, I guessed that I would not want to leave that unsaid. The next few years passed. He stopped performing in his 80s, and I moved to Nicaragua. And yesterday came word of his death.

I had contacted a mutual friend through Facebook to get word of Bingo's status a few months ago. I guess that friendship has withered, as I never heard back. (Fuck you, Chris.) And now, this world is a much poorer place without my extraordinary friend Bingo, with his steely, frequently twinkling eyes, his impossibly erect posture, his truthfulness, his intense loyalty.

I've turned my house over vainly searching for a favorite photo taken in the Pirates' dugout just before I threw out the first pitch one summer evening. Bingo and I were chatting with manager Chuck Tanner, both of us giddy with excitement at sitting in the dugout! Here instead is a snapshot taken at Pittsburgh club Graffiti, when Luis Clemente, son of the great Roberto, was performing with me and my friends to raise money for my Nica sport project. Here we are together, in 1990, I think, in a badly lit, but precious memento.

16 February 2020 --
Found that photo -- note: I have just been taught how to hold the ball with forked fingers... we are both listening intently to Chuck Tanner explain the meaning of life. Miss you so much, Bingo.

Losing My Virginity

When, in April, 2016, I moved into this house in the Carazo hills, I had hooks installed on the front porch for my hammock, which I had bought in Masaya on a shopping trip with brother Bobby.
Then, my new housekeeper suggested I keep the hammock inside the house when I was not using it, as some unscrupulous ladron might help himself to it under cover of night. I ignored this advice as  it would have resulted in my never using the hammock at all. That was nearly three years ago.

July 2016 - My friend Ivan and his son Parzi, with Susie and Brynn, at our 4th of July party.

Last night, the ladron finally showed up. I feel certain that lovely hammock is today worth much less than when this photo was taken. Three years' dry season dust accumulation has rendered the hammock a grungy grey, and our latest puppy, Lolita, has found the decorative fringe irresistible for gnawing, chewing and pulling apart into glorious shreds.

In truth, my robbery record in Pittsburgh dwarfs this solo event. Over 12 years in the Oakland section of Pittsburgh, I was burglarized five times. That works out to five stereo systems (Yeah, I know. "What's a stereo system, Mom?"), four televisions, various cameras and lenses, a microwave oven. And my cherished medieval lute. Sigh.

My garden hose is also AWOL this morning.  I can pick up a new one when I go shopping for a bear trap to set nightly as a welcome mat for my next nefarious visitation. Now that my robbery-free record has been stolen, can the next time be far off?