Because my friend Alfa-Betty Olsen once worked for Lore Noto, she was invited to the 17,162th and last performance of The Fantasticks. (You read her name right: Alfa-Betty's Norwegian immigrant parents were Alf and Betty.) Noto, who has never had another hit, put on the original Fantasticks production in 1960 for what now must be considered the bargain basement price of $16,500. After 42 years -- and a staggering return of capital to investors -- he decided only a few months back that it was time to shutter the show in Manhattan and let the legend live on in many places around the globe and for many years to come.

Since Bill Weeden, a friend of mine, had been playing one of the roles in the long-running musical for the last year and a half, A-B asked if I wanted to accompany her to the closing night party. I said yes, because in addition to congratulating Bill, I had another reason for traipsing to the Sullivan Street Playhouse on, you know, Sullivan Street in Greenwich Village. It has to do with one of my theories about this amazing town and goes: Every night in New York City there may be many things going on, but there is only one place that's the Absolute Place to Be.

I'm not the kind of local who's ordinarily invited to these events. I wasn't at Truman Capote's famous Black-and-White Party in the 60s, for instance, nor, to pick another instance, was I at the opening night of The Producers. Once in awhile, however, I luck out. It's not every night that a show running for 42 years closes up shop. In fact, there's never been a previous night when a show running for 42 years has closed up shop, and it's a safe bet that another night like it won't come along soon or, possibly, ever. So my being tapped for an appearance at the Fantasticks's final blow-out was fortunate. (It was also going to be the final night for the Sullivan Street Playhouse, which is being turned into something else by the small building's new owners.)

So off I went with Alfa-Betty. Since we were invited to the party but not the performance, we timed our arrival for just about when we figured the last notes would be played and sung. We miscalculated and, on entering the Sullivan Street Playhouse's narrow, unprepossessing lobby, were asked to climb a flight of stairs to a slightly wider but no more possessing gallery where other party-goers were gathered to watch a closed-circuit televison showing of the cute-as-a-button musical.

While those already in attendance -- some seated, some standing, some whose views of the set were totally obscured -- were a generally colorful crowd, they weren't star-studded. Since I'm not much of a stud myself, I couldn't complain, of course. So I just positioned myself on the stairs with the flowers I'd brought for Bill, while Alfa-Betty positioned herself by a downstairs exit in order to waylay her old chums, Mel Brooks and Anne Bancroft, who were rumored to be in the audience. (Brooks, whom I've never met although I talked to him once, and Alfa-Betty had worked on the script for the film of The Producers in Noto's office in 1968 or thereabouts.) There was a general feeling of good-will and expectation in the room, although there was a curious draw-back. It was the walls, which were covered with large photographs of the actors who had appeared in The Fantasticks over the four-plus decades. Taken from what are known as 8"x10" glossies and are usually attached to actors' resumés, the portraits raised a melancholy question. Where were these eager and presumably accomplished players now? (How many of them might have been waiting, unrecognized, along with me?) Yes, a few people who'd spent time as part of the eight-person cast, went on to have some sort of visible performing career. Law & Order regular Jerry Orbach is one, and Oscar-winning F Murray Abraham another. But most of these thespians have toiled in obscurity; while the play they served is famous, they never have been. How many of these actors' dreams, you had to wonder (or at least, I did), have gone unrealized.

This stray thought, however, wasn't enough to dampen the evening, which caught new fire at the curtain call. Noto spoke, as did the musical's creators Tom Jones and Harvey Schmidt, who were young men when they wrote their annuity and are now in their seventies. Former city council speaker Peter F Vallone also made a few bromidic remarks. Then the party proper began. Too many party-goers caused gridlock in the too-small rooms, but despite that everyone seemed to be in a good mood. Certainly, Bill Weeden was and had a good laugh when he told me he'd noticed that both Vallone and former television talk-show host Joe Franklin slept during at least part of the performance.

After a quarter of an hour of this, Alfa-Betty and I figured we'd spent enough time at the Absolute Place to Be and left. My thought was, Tomorrow night there will be another Absolute Place to Be, and I wouldn't be there. But tonight I had been.

Also by David Finkle:
COFFEE-HOUSE BLUES
THE ZEN OF JAY-WALKING
CHANGING PLACES
DARKNESS AT NOON
UNION SQUARE
MAKING IT REAL
WAKE UP CHILLUN
FLYING THE FLAG
PLEASANTVILLE
AN ILL WIND