A man said to me recently, “Maybe I should just take my shit and leave!” Hulking over me with his massive figure–6’4, rotund, 280lb– as women in the background looked on in horror.

“I think that’s a good idea,” I said, hoping the lasers in my eyes would melt his stature. “You should do that. Take your shit and get out of here.”

He took his shit and got out of there.

As I type this, he is in an AirBnB across the street from me, where he’d been staying these last few months after his house partially burned down. He is blasting music, and playing and singing along on piano, at the absolute top of his voice. I haven’t spoken to him in 4 days since I told him to take his shit and leave. The last he spoke to me, it was a text message saying he was sorry, but that he believed we were both at fault for miscommunication. There was no safe way to answer the text truthfully, so I’ve been ignoring him since, hoping the garden I helped plant at the AirBnB doesn’t die because I’m not coming over to water it.

I had imagined that all would be well and we could be friends if we stopped working together, but as I listen to him scream into a microphone blasted so loud it is all that can be heard on this quiet block, it occurs to me that if he twists my silence into some self-loathing thought about himself, he may decide he should kill me. I remember that he owns a gun, and that he is bipolar, and goes off his meds too often.

He probably won’t. I’m not his girlfriend or wife. I’m just a musician he really wanted to work with, who offered him an opportunity to help me with an elevated open mic project I was working on. I wanted to make a house band that could hold down the fort when things were lagging and to help other musicians along.

He was ecstatic about the idea, having tried to get me to jam with him several times, and wanting so much to form a band. I had told him, repeatedly, I had no interest in forming a band. I hated bands. I hated working at bars. Everything was volatile and ego-fueled.

But then I had the idea for the open mic variety theatre. It seemed the perfect project for me to collaborate with musicians. Where it is not about US and our IMAGE, it’s about the SHOW, and supporting people. A mission higher than our egos.

He was absolutely obsequious. “I want to support this any way I can. You’re really meant to be here, Sam. This is an amazing project, and I support you one hundred percent. I will never let you down. I am committed.”

This is not what he was getting at, this was what he said. And every word read as something he hoped was true, not something that was true. But, as he’d put it, he used to be all ego–now he was on a new journey towards God, and he wasn’t perfect, but Lord was he trying!

I’m never one to shy away from complicated people. It’s a horrible proclivity I have. I am addicted to learning, and I also believe you learn everything the hard way. I am a cat to my soul, and curiosity is what kills me every time. I knew he was full of shit, and selfish to the core, but I believed he was trying, and had come here to make a change. And he wasn’t without musical talent. And I wanted to encourage him to do what he said he came here to do: Devote himself to music. I knew he would be difficult. But I couldn’t help myself.

Afterall, the entire work I was trying to do was to take disparate people, see if we can’t get them in a room, get them listening to each other, and make collaborative art together. This is a tall order, and it requires practice.

Besides, I relate to him in many ways. He is loud. I am loud. He is a leo. I am a Leo. He plays music. I play music. He believes he is on a mission from God. I follow a calling from Goddess. He is unbearable in familiar ways to me. He was a handful, I knew it, and I liked him anyway.

But I was not precious enough about my child–the theatre project. I shouldn’t have let it near this man. Because I thought it would be hard to get him to listen. I thought I might have to manage the occasional outburst. And I thought I might have to assert my authority more often than I would like to have to do, since he is the type to make everything about him. I thought it would be babysitting. But that working towards the same goal would ultimately align us. This is what community arts are all about, right?

How is it possible that in the year 2026, it did not occur to me that he, my friend, would not just accidentally stumble, but would try to subvert the aims of the project entirely towards his own fantasies of himself?

We’ll call this man Jack.

The problems started when I called in my other friend (we’ll call him Miles) to play guitar. Jack would play a second guitar and piano, depending on what was called for. The three of us were the first of the house band members, and we got together to play a few tunes.

The two of them hated each other immediately. Miles is a top tier music nerd, and has been a producer for major acts. He loves math rock (which I hate, but respect, and recognize as more complicated to perform in a moment than, say, the way I strum two chords over and over again on banjo. Does it make it better music? Who cares if math rock makes my ears bleed. The fact is, the man can play, and can play any song upon hearing it once or twice.) He is also his own brand of charmingly insufferable. Anything you can show him that is good, whether a song, or a piece of equipment, is not as good as the things he has worked on. He will literally never stop talking if you don’t stop him. I am a motormouth. Jack is a motormouth. But is capacity to keep talking without pause is out of this world. He has a lot of requirements, and needs a lot of time to set up, and is always at the mercy of some nutritionist, or specialist, or Yogi, or light worker, all of whom give him many conflicts in availability and which means he always has better places to be.

Jack is a bull in a china shop. He is also full of shit. But his bravado makes him very compelling, as well. When he plays, he emotes, and when he performs, he demands attention. If the two could have tried to be cool for the sake of the project, the few rehearsals we had together were all the proof I needed that these two sounded beautiful together, and challenged each other to improve in all the right ways. Jack being so full of bravado made Miles have to attempt to overtake him in order to correct in real time–which brought Miles and his brilliant playing to the fore where it belonged. Jack, who is, basically, full of shit, was forced to not rely on the regular schtick he used to pretend he was more competent than the rest. He actually had to work on it–because standing right next thiim was a better guitar player. The work they did alone improved almost immediately upon playing with each other.

But they didn’t notice this, because they were too busy ripping each other apart in passive aggressive ways, belittling each other’s equipment, volume, set up. The music had very little to do with it. And both of them seemed they could exchange praise for my talent for actually listening to my direction.

Jack would call me and tell me I should really consider kicking Miles out of the band, because he didn’t think he was REALLY committed–not like the two of us were. He had missed one rehearsal for his nutritionist guru already. How many more missed practices would there be? Jack made note that he really liked him–he really, really liked him, and would be sad to see him go. But gosh, it sure would be a shame if he ruined this beautiful project by not showing up.

When Jack injured his hand falling down some stairs, as he is prone to do, Miles called me to say that Jack should really not be playing with that hand. I told him I’d cancelled that day’s rehearsal and next week’s so he could heal. He said, “Or maybe he should take off a month, or two…”

And this is how it went, until Miles quit, citing endless appointments with his gurus, and not wanting to fight with Jack anymore.

When Miles quit, my friends were quick to say “What an asshole!” but it was Jack I was livid at. Yes, there was a back and forth, and yes, Miles had his own insufferable qualities, but it was clear from the beginning Jack felt like a fool with him around, and wanted him out.

But Jack had never missed a rehearsal. Jack was truly apologetic, and vowed to make it up to me by bringing in some more guys. He put up posters. He took me to a board meeting at the theatre.

Though, that itself was a somewhat humiliating experience. As we put up posters, he stopped to chat with everyone he could to talk up the project–and wouldn’t leave them alone, had no sense of when he was going too far, and what’s worse, was giving out wrong information about the theatre, all while chastising me that if I wanted this to work, I’d have to put myself out there, more. Then, at one point, as he was talking to someone about it, he gestured to me and said, “This is Sam. She’s…well…she’s kind of in charge of this, sort of?”

“Not sort of. I am in charge of this project,” I said, giving Jack the dagger eyes.

The man is 62. His misogyny did not surprise me. Nor is it something that I can avoid in this town, or any town, but can only manage. It was tiring, and annoying, but it didn’t seem dangerous. When we had a moment, I explained to him that I actually had an entire promotional plan, and that talking to people today was explicitly not on it. My plan was staggered and timed. I wanted posters up first, so business owners could see my face, and people would become familiar with the name of the show. Then, later, I would be dropping off printed information to businesses, explaining what we’re doing CLEARLY, and do it in person so I could introduce myself. And then, I would come in to street perform and talk to the public about it. And then I would call the businesses and make my ask, when people are already familiar with us. This would be in conjunction with the media campaign that was also timed. I had this under control, and so, while I appreciate his enthusiasm and dedication, I’d rather he ask me what I need, rather than charge off on his own. He said, “Of course! Of course!”

. Jack was difficult to manage, but he showed up and wanted to do good–but was willing to put in the work to make up for it.

He was an obnoxious asshole, but weren’t we all? The point is showing up, right?

So, of course, I said, “Let’s try again.”

I enjoyed the bass player he brought in–the very nice man, who generously offered his space to rehearse in. The only problem was that he did not play bass. He was a guitar player. But he had wanted to learn and this seemed like a good way to do it. I agreed. He had good rhythm, and could figure out the basics with his guitar background, and I felt having players at different levels would only be encouraging to the open mic people.

Jack took it up on himself to mentor him on playing the bass, despite not playing bass, himself. This was when I began to suspect I’d made a terrible, terrible mistake letting my baby anywhere near this man.

We’ll call the bass player Alex.

Alex asked me what the theatre project was, exactly. I attempted to explain it to him:

Believe me when I say this happened every single time I tried to speak to Alex, and later, when the drummer came in, the group as a whole. It got to the point that a lot of the time I would have to take everyone aside individually to negate what Jack was saying, and to correct Jack on what he was wrong about, to explain to him that he needed to listen to me when I spoke, and to try harder to shut up and let me speak.

Then I tried to tell everyone the production schedule:

“We are trying to open a show,” I continued. “This is likely not like any band you’ve been a part of before–we already have the shows booked. We are committed to them so that it is easy for the audience. There is nothing whimsical about this: We will go on stage on September 20th, and we will return every week, and we are there as a support for the show–to hold it up so that open mic people are free to experiment. We have to rehearse. This IS a commitment. And while I hope it will be fun, it’s not obligation free. We’re here for a reason. Not just to have fun.”

“But…I mean…performance IS practice” said the drummer. We’ll call him Goat.

“Not when we re doing new songs every week. Not when we are still getting used to playing with each other. I keep hearing that these songs are easy, but they still need work. We need the rehearsal. I also need you to be at tech rehearsal so we can set the sound and the stage plot. It will be four hours. It will be boring, and it will be a lot of waiting around, but it’s very important because then it’s set for the entire run. If you can’t make this rehearsal, please let me know by tomorrow with your other conflicts.”

At the end of rehearsal, I pulled Jack aside. “I’ve been working on this for longer than you realize. I do not need you to interpret my words while I’m talking. I’m perfectly able to express myself.”

“So I should just shut up and not talk at rehearsals?”

“You should trust me to lead this.”

“I still want to work with Alex on the bass. I want a real role in this, please?”

“You can always feel free to give people who are struggling help. But he’s doing much better than you’re giving him credit for, and mostly, I’d like you to lay off and let him find it. You are interrupting everything too much when I need you to just come prepared, and to listen. I need you to listen to me when I’m talking, and let me lead my project.”

He had a pout on for the rest of rehearsal and blustered around with aggressive gestures every time he unplugged an instrument or moved from here to there. A baby throwing a tantrum. But still…he was trying. He was trying not to flip a table in rage. Which is a tenuous position.

I rode home fuming. Not that he had talked over me. But because he had talked over me at a rehearsal where he clearly didn’t know any of the songs, and had been hiding his failings behind frustration at Alex’s supposed ineptitude. Because he wasn’t good enough to be this much work. I was fuming at myself because somehow this man who was incapable of listening–and therefore incapable of being a good musician–into this project, and that now I didn’t know a way out without a big personal drama. We had been friends. And he was so afraid of failure that it fucked him up as a musician and dragged everyone around him down. And he talked about this project like it was sacred to him–like he really needed it. There was no way to reject him or call him out without sending him spiraling in a way that ruined everyone’s day.

At the next rehearsal, he tried to take control right up front by announcing loudly, “I think we should have a jam. Just to warm up. I know you have your ideas about how rehearsal should go, Sam, but I just feel really strongly that this is the best way to start.”

“It’s funny you say that, Jack,” I said with a smile. “Because, as I mentioned before–I’m not sure if you heard me–I want the show to end in a jam. So I was actually going to ask if you guys felt good to jam, myself. Alex? Goat? How does that strike you?”

They said good, and they set up to jam.

“Goat, why don’t you give us a funky beat. And then Alex, when you feel you’re ready, why don’t you come in with a bassline. Jack–since you have the most experience here, why don’t you let them set it up, Alex can do something he feels confident in, and you be the one to listen for the key and come in with guitar. And when you guys have a groove, I’ll come in with vocals.”

Goat came in with the beat. Alex came in with the bassline. Jack declared he didn’t like the key.

“Can’t we just do it in A?” he said. “I think that’s a much better key.”

It’s the key you rehearsed to show off in, when you should have been going over our songs, I thought.

“Are you comfortable in A, Alex?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said.

“A it is,” I smiled. “Let’s try it again, and let’s keep it simple. Let’s do just two chords. A and Em”

Goat came in. Alex came in. Jack came in with a soaring guitar solo.

“Find a groove,” I said at last, when the solo had gone on for far too long. “

Jack started moving through a chord progression, then stopping abruptly, “Alex, listen,” he said. “Follow me. I want you to A, then to D, then to B flat, and then when I go like this, I want you to drop down to–“

“No…that’s not going to be helpful, Jack. You’re teaching him a song. This is a jam. We won’t be calling out chords, and this is for the open mic people as well. Keep it simple. I’d say no more than four chords, but four chords on repeat.”

Jack was fucking angry. And silent.

“This is for the SHOW. There might be time in the future to learn any song you want, but I need to know that we can jam on the fly before we do it on stage. A and Em. Let’s try it again.”

We did it my way and had a beautiful jam. Then we went through the songs, and had a decent rehearsal. We only had two more before the show. We would not have nine songs down. We would have three. But that’s all we needed to start. I’d figure out the rest later.

But then Alex and Goat called in for our two last rehearsals, and Alex informed me that that he could only make two out of six shows. Couldn’t make it. Sorry. Both at the last minute, weeks after I’d asked them for conflicts.

I told Jack, “Well, we’ll still have a jam with the open mic people, and if you could play three songs on your own to fill time that would be a huge help, since we’ve lost half the band and our rehearsal space.”

“I’m there for you. Whatever you need. But I don’t see why it can’t just be you and me up there. I don’t think you and I need anybody else.”

“This is for the community. This is for everyone else. It’s a blessing in disguise, though. The house band will, over time, just be the regular open mic people who are devoted to the project, and come back week after week because they want to. It will be a community band.”

“I’m just saying, you and I should work up a set, though–“

“And we can do that for one of the shows. And maybe I’ll do a set with someone else for one of the shows. But I don’t want to do a set band. It’s going to be better if it arises organically. And I hope that people like you can help hold it down.”

“I’m just trying to give you the benefit of my many years of experience.”

Jack was in his 60’s. But his entire story was regret that he had not pursued music–and pursued money instead. I, on the other hand had not pursued money at all. Only music. Only theatre. 11 years of formal theatre training. Scholarships, accolades, awards. 6 years playing four hours a day in subways and on streets, while going to open jams at night and open mic’s at night. 35 years of performing in front of audiences. 6 albums. Countless club shows, across the country. A dozen years hosting open mics, open jams, karaoke. Three solo shows that I self produced and got great reviews for. A failed theatre company of my own from my early days, and years of working education in the theatre storefronts of Chicago to correct my issues. Several brushes with fame, guest work, solo work, group work, and so much shit I can’t even count it all, because every moment of my poverty stricken life has been about producing shows, theatre, and music–HIS years of experience? I should defer to HIS years of experience?

“I have a vision, Jack. I want you to take this opportunity to not be a manager, but instead, be a musician. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

I was absolutely not going to be in a two person band with Jack. I’ve always despised and loathed male/female singer songwriter duos. Because I have never seen one that wasn’t an abusive relationship, where a man wasn’t riding on a woman’s vocal talent, all the while telling her she is not a real musician and would be nothing without him. I thought of all the things he always wanted to take off my plate. I thought of how hard he fought that we use his PA, and not the theatre’s PA, and realized he was looking for ways to have me over a barrel. I thought of all the times Jack had said to me, “Don’t you just think women naturally sing well? It’s like a gift from God! Men just don’t sing very well”

“I find that women are encouraged to sing more, and that when you start playing an instrument from early childhood, and practice it all of the time, you play it very naturally. And singing is one that people usually start earlier than guitar–they start when they can speak. But my voice took work, and training, and many thousands of hours of performances, and still more hours of rehearsals. I do not open my mouth and have gold spill out. It’s something I hone and control. Just like any other musician.”

Benevolent misogyny is never benevolent.

In the car with my neighbor, we’ll call him Nick, I said, “I wonder how much Jack is going to drive me crazy during this tech rehearsal…”

Nick just laughed nervously.

We met Jack at the theatre. I took a look at the stage and realized without the band, my original stage plot would have to be entirely reworked. I had thought he band would be on the raised stage, and the open mic would be on the floor, where there was a big gap before the seats began. But with no real band anymore, we didn’t need the stage.

“I think we should set up the equipment on the floor, bring it all closer to the audience, since the show is smaller now.”

“Well I don’t even want to DO IT if it’s not on the stage!” he yelled. Here it was. He was about to blow, right at the top of rehearsal. “Come on, we need to put us on the stage. Nick? Help me get the equipment on the stage–“

“Who’s us, Jack? There is no band anymore. Everyone else is out. There’s just going to be a jam, and we need it closer to the audience.”

“Us–you and me.”

“It’s not you and me, now. It’s a jam with the open mic performers.”

“The only reason I want to DO this is to be on the stage!”

“Well, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that was the ONLY reason you wanted to do this, is to be on an elevated stage.”

“I would have done it for you! But you think I want to play at an open mic? I want to be in a BAND! I want to be on a STAGE! Maybe I should just take my shit and leave?”

Obsequious. Supportive. Committed. Here for me. Right up until he realized he would not manipulate me into turning my dream into his fantasy, or turn my leadership into his leadership. Then the truth comes out. He is not committed to the project. He is not committed to bringing the community together over music. He thought it was his chance to be a rockstar, and have me do all of the work to get him there: The show I self produced that led to this opportunity. The building of the website, the promoting, the fundraising, the poundment paving, the designing the lifting, the phone calls, the begging–all on me, with him deciding the show, and, no doubt, taking all of the credit (“She’s KIND OF in charge.”) Not only did he sabotage the band every step of the way, but he threw a giant tantrum in front of my fiscal sponsors, the people who were considering putting me on their board, the people who were making this possible. And whether or not he was thinking of that when he had his outburst, we’d had many conversations about what this opportunity meant to me, professionally, personally, artistically. Not because there was a miscommunication. But because he had a plan to manipulate me into submission, it wasn’t working, and now he would have to blow it all up.

“I think that’s a good idea,” I said, hoping the lasers in my eyes would melt his stature. “You should do that. Take your shit and get out of here.”

I went on with the tech rehearsal, and for the first show, I relied on MY many years of experience to simply get on the stage, and pull an hour long show out of my ass to warm up the crowd. By the time I was done, after gentle nudging, people were excited to get on the stage. A drummer and guitar player hopped up to jam. A woman did a wonderful rendition of Melanie’s “Brand New Key.” At the end we all sang Season of the Witch, while I danced with someone’s child and blew bubble solution through a wand for his amazement. We had a good time. They want to come back, with more material. In spite of it all, somehow, I got people in a room together to listen to each other, and bravely be heard. It worked.

And now, here I sit, trying to plan the next show, trying to work out how to double the audience next week, how to tweak the structure and fix the problems, how to squeeze donations out of it, because this is all I’m doing, and all I will ever do. Because I hear a call from the Goddess, and it says, “Someone has to figure out how to bring people together into the same room to consider each other.” And he is across the street, screaming his songs at the top of his lungs, wanting me to hear what I’m missing, wanting me to hear his power, wanting me to hear that I made a huge mistake and he will prove it.

And I worry that if it’s the middle of the night, and he’s spiraling, feeling embarrassed that he acted like such a child, feeling embarrassed that his fakery didn’t work, worrying about what I’m saying about him, deciding I sabotaged him, deciding that I screwed him over, he has all kinds of excuses for kicking my door down and killing me in a fit of range. He’s bipolar. He’s a flawed man but he’s trying to find God. He only wanted to help me, and I couldn’t give him one little thing he wanted…

This is what it’s like to be a woman.