He was 71, an actor on and off-Broadway, when he was struck by a tour bus
in May. He died shortly thereafter. By most reckonings, he was a failure: he shared a $500
per month government-subsidized apartment; his roles as a working actor were rarely bigger
than those of a butler or waiter; and he almost never was required to speak more than five
lines in a production.
But in another sense, he was a magnificent success. Until his death, he
chased his rainbow, the theater, and made a living, though modest, in the chase.
Randolph "Ran" Walker, the aging New York actor whose roles were
tiny but whose obituary warranted two pages of coverage and photos in the New York
Times arts section on June 1, knew what was important in life: doing what one loves.
Reading further in the elegiac article, one notes other wonderful things
about this man who earned the respect of his peers. One of his casting directors stated
that "he was willing to audition for every kind of job. A lot of actors’ first
words are, ‘How much is it paying?’ His were: ‘Who wrote the music? Who is
the director?’"
A typical role that gave him pride was a recent lead in a production of
"Taking Sides" at the United States Custom House in Lower Manhattan for which he
received only $3 a day in car fare.
His fellow actors also admired his selflessness. One of a number of older
men competing for the small number of parts in New York theater, Keith Perry, said of him,
"We shared disappointments. There was never a jealousy in Ran."
In what is viewed as a cutthroat business, he kept his values in
perspective.
When I become discontented, I hope I can remember this unsung hero of whom
casting director Steven DeAngelis also said, "Ran was the kind of performer for whom
the work was the reward, the process was the reward."
Once, when I was recovering from surgery at St. John’s Hospital in
Santa Monica, Calif., I came to look forward to the visits of an especially warm and
friendly nurses’ aide. One day I asked her why she was so chipper in spite of her
seemingly unpleasant duties emptying bed trays, changing bloody dressings and other chores
relegated to her because she wasn’t an RN but an LVN (Licensed Vocational Nurse).
She came close to me, sat by my bed and took my hand in hers. Then she
asked me a question. "Of all of your caregivers, who causes you pain and who makes
you feel better?" She explained that her job was one which directly improved the
moods of her patients. She never had to give an injection. Instead, she comforted and
cleaned and massaged and soothed brows. She loved what she did in spite of the long hours
and low wages. She reminds me of Ran.
I have a friend whose father belonged to a generation that worked at what
they were told they needed to do. The family patriarch, who had emigrated to America,
designated his four sons to fill certain roles. The elder was to be a financier and earn
enough money to send the next three through college and professional schools so they could
be, in order of assignment, a lawyer, a dentist, and a doctor. They all followed the
professions they were told to pursue. Their sense of duty and honor for their father
determined their choice of careers.
Succeeding generations have been more fortunate in their options. Indeed,
it is hard to imagine a young man of today following a patriarch’s wishes regarding
his career. Also, we are much more concerned with doing things that are pleasurable to us
rather than doing them for someone else’s notions of responsible contributions to
society.
My friend, the son of the dentist, scandalized his parents when he stated
that he wanted to play professional baseball and, then, even worse, not follow their
wishes that he become an accountant. Although he didn’t play ball, he defied them by
studying law. I still think that every baseball season there is a vestigial regret that he
didn’t join the Triple-A league which wanted to draft him. I’ve seen pictures of
this man at age 50 in "Dodger camp" clothes, and I well remember the time he
spent an afternoon in an empty Fenway Park in Boston standing at home plate imagining what
it would feel like to actually play there.
I never heard his father complain about the routine of his days or the
career he chose; nor have I heard my friend complain about his ultimate choice. One cannot
second guess what might have been had be been able to follow his baseball dream. His
chosen profession has been productive; he has embodied its best attributes. He has enabled
others to follow their dreams and developed a loyal and respectful clientele in a much
maligned vocation.
Nonetheless, I hope that he—and you and I and all the people I care
for—experience pleasurable daily work. For a chef it may be the joy of cooking; for a
teacher, the delight of comprehension on the face of a student; for an artist, the
satisfaction of working in his or her medium. These are rewards enough.
Randolph Walker knew that truth every time he emerged from the wings in
his beloved theater. That’s why we applaud him, even in death.
