Angie

Angie Alexander owned a clothing store in Virginia Beach, Virginia, the resort town on the Atlantic Ocean where I grew up in the 1960s. All the kids bought their suits there and, in the summer, their Bermuda shorts and short-sleeved Madras shirts. The store was called Alexander-Beegle. The clothes were very good, and they were expensive. Not everyone could afford to shop there. But as a self-involved teenager, that distinction was not on my radar.

Angie was gregarious, theatrical, energetic and good-natured. He bubbled life, like champagne. He was stocky, dark-haired. He moved about the room like a ballet dancer, spinning his body halfway around to greet a new customer, easing gracefully to another part of the store to reach for a garment. The last time I walked into his store, many years ago, he greeted me with a flourish, “Mister Goodman! Always a pleasure! What have you been up to?”

Angie Alexander in his store

I’d finished graduate school at that point. Most of my clothes-buying days at Alexander-Beegle were over, but I always liked to visit and say hello. It had been a while.

“I’m living in New York,” I said.

“The Big Apple!” He let out a sigh.

“Yes.”

“Pray tell, where?”

“In Greenwich Village. On West Twelfth Street.”

He became reflective. “I lived in the Village once. On Grove Street. A hundred years ago.”

I knew that street well. “Really? That’s a great street, Grove Street. Did you like living there?”

“Loved it. Every single minute.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Trying to be an actor.”

Of course! It made perfect sense! His store was theater. His selling clothes was a performance, with his flourishes and wit, his timing perfect. He probably could have sold tickets.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Wasn’t good enough.”

“You left?”

“Had to. Ran out of money.”

It felt a bit wrong, my probing of this abandoned dream. But, as a citizen of the city now, I was fascinated by Angie’s New York days. He looked out the store window, to the vague distance, uncharacteristically silent. It only lasted an instant.

“Did you ever think about trying again?” I asked.

“Too late. Too old.”

It’s such a hard calling, so punishing, acting. The odds are high against you. You need the unwavering faith of a true believer. You need thick-skinned optimism. You need bottomless resolve. In my few years living in New York, I’d already seen many young actors I knew abandon ship, unable to hold on, slipping away to careers in real estate and banking and law.

Angie turned to me and said,

“Now—what can we do for you today?”

I mumbled something about needing a sweater.

“Ah!” He waved a directing hand. “Follow me.”

I wanted to root for the young Angie, to tell him that he could do it. Stay a little longer! (Was I talking to myself? How much resolve, as a writer, did I have?) But that wasn’t my place or my choice. And who was I to say what made him content and fulfilled? Look what he gave to people—a personal performance where they were, at least briefly, the only one in the audience. He’d founded his own theater in Alexander-Beegle, and I loved going to the matinees, always leaving uplifted and satisfied, with much more than just a garment.