Roland was good to his word. I had forgotten about his promise. So many promises are idle. After the evening show he waited near the stage door. Some of the cast had plans for after the show, but when I caught a glimpse of Roland under a nearby streetlight, I excused myself and wove through the crowd toward him. It was indeed a surprise. I wondered why he was here, why he would make such an effort. We had met in Los Angeles weeks ago, just a lazy day, a chance meeting. When you travel for a living, you meet so many people that you know you will never see again. You are always moving, while most people stay put. But why was he here? We had nothing in common except a random meeting. We had both lived in Manhattan, but 10 years apart. I couldn’t even remember his last name.

Roland had been in Sidney on business and had been treated to some of the Olympic events. His Japanese associates insisted that he join them for the women’s softball final. The Japanese had beaten the Unites States in the qualifying round and rolled undefeated into the Gold metal round. The American women, overcoming great odds, and prevailing in several extra inning matches met the Japanese women again for the gold. An error by the Japanese left fielder in the bottom of the eighth inning allowed victory to the Americans. And now he was in Seattle.

While Roland had been mostly light hearted in Los Angeles, it seemed this sporting error had subdued him. It had happened four days and an ocean ago and yet he dwelled on the concept of an error. We all made errors. There were frequently measurable costs associated with an error. It could be measured in honor, or dollars, or time, or lives, though most were harmless. If an error somehow resulted in good fortune, we didn’t call it an error. We called it a stroke of luck. Some errors were obvious, like a dropped line drive, and some were not. In some cases you couldn’t measure the cost of an error, because you could never know the alternative outcome. You could never replay events at the point of the error and review the final results. So in the grand scheme, it was hard to know for sure if something was an error or a stroke of luck.

What really weighed on Rolly was a feeling he had made an error 14 years ago as a graduate student and was just now realizing it. I think it was still a feeling and he had not put it into words until we had finished our meal. It crystallized for him. A meal is a mixture of pleasant tastes and aromas and the warmth of wine, and good conversation and then there is the check. And as he looked at the check that evening, the figures struck something deep within him. Roland’s life was money.

His worries were the rising price of energy and the decline of the Euro, the lingering recession in Japan and the constant challenge to channel venture capital to viable enterprise. His error was worrying about the wrong things. He had learned to worry about these things at NYU and had never ever questioned the premise that money is everything.

I think it is too easy for someone who has a great deal of money to toy with the idea that it is not important. 

During the curtain call, when I look out over the audience, I see bright faces in the front rows fading to darkness in the back. I see hands clapping, and sometimes it seems in slow motion, like the Parade spectators. I know everyone has worries and some, like Rolly, fret over past choices. But it seems clear that the musical brings a few hours of diversion to all, and for a short time, gives them something else to think about.