April 3, 1996  □  Bethlehem, Pennsylvania

I am in California, on the very day I am to leave and go home. If I pack up my things quickly and get them into the car, all ready to leave, we will have time to go to a play.

We arrive at the play. I was expecting Auntie Mame, but it turns out to be Alice in Wonderland, or, at least, that is what is announced. Oh well, I like Alice.

There are many characters I do not recognize, such as a woman who develops a rash which spreads, first all over her body, then all over her house, inside and out, and finally all over the ground her house stands on. She is loved by a skinny and neurotic tin man—who belongs in Oz, not Wonderland.

All the characters have problems, Oz-like, and they are seeking solutions, but somehow they are more pathetic than funny. I wait and wait for Alice, who is sure to be more spunky and more interesting to watch. I try to remember whether Alice is also funny, and decide that she must be, or the play will be a disaster. The first act ends without Alice.

The next scene is the pool of tears. Still no Alice. A small glass boat, the shape of an eye cup, is sailing across the water, remotely controlled by means of a homemade antenna—really just a bobby pin perched on the edge of the cup. It really works, and I think, this director knows nothing about acting but is a pretty good engineer.

I finally ask, where is Alice? Oh, they say, none of the actors was short enough, and so we have done without Alice. She isn’t really necessary—the plot works out just fine without her. I return to watching and see many actors, all of them grownups and none of them short, talking tediously about their shortcomings.

I think, if Alice were only here, she would make quick work of these tiresome difficulties. But of course Alice never comes.

When I wake I realize I should have expected Dorothy, not Alice, but I soon realize that where there is no Alice, there is no Dorothy either.