I was a young man working the night shift in a gigantic hotel and the aging night auditor was a chain smoking Egyptian. He was near enough to retirement be cactus-y inside and out. We liked each other right away and he mentored me in his own fashion.
“Do you read plays?"
“No."
“Really?! But you have to. Eugene O'Niell, he's fucking wonderful. You must read him. You have to read plays!"

I grew less young, he grew more old and years later he died.

I found myself reading plays, always with his Arab accent in my ears. "Read this, read that...read the Russians, you have to, they're really fucking great. And Hardy. You read Hardy don't you? No?!" A deep, long drag on his cigarette, followed by an abrupt exhale and, "What is wrong with you? I don't know. You have to read these things."

To this day I cannot read a play without smelling cigarette smoke and seeing him smile.

Almost, Maine is a play. Typically American, it is brimming with hope, passion and enthusiasm. A bit of hyperbole, a dash of corny. I loved it and it made me happy and a tad less unwise.

Galal, my old friend, I don't know if "Almost, Maine" is "fucking great". I confess it's not on a par with Chekov, but it is a playful play written with joyfulness and shill. I want you to know that I am still reading plays, and I still miss you. ( )

Fantastic. Read it. If I hadn't just written a three page reflection about it, I would go into further detail. It's magical, it's optimistic, it's really special. ( )