A year or more ago, I was sitting at the reception desk at Second City when the phone rang. Joyce Sloane was on the other end of the line.
"Who is this?"
"This is Casey, Joyce."
"Casey, get in here and have some of this chocolate Bill Murray just sent me."
This was an order I had to follow because A) It's chocolate.
B)Bill Murray sent it so, even if I had an allergy, I couldn't turn it down, and
C) Joyce Sloane told me to do a thing and I knew better than to say no.
It was late 2004 when I read an article about Second City's 45th anniversary where someone, possibly a person I now know well, said, "I walk up these stairs every morning, I look at the photos of the famous alums I grew up admiring, and I cannot believe how lucky I am to work here." I was a production assistant in Georgia at the time, obsessed with Second City and everything Chicago had to offer. Three years later, I was brave enough to make that move. Within a matter of a month, by chance, I was a Second City employee, and I finally knew exactly what that person meant. The history and magic inside that place were not lost on me as I sold ticket after ticket. And it wasn't long before I was walking out the door to grab lunch one day when this woman spoke to me.
"Where are you going?"
I turned around to see who it was. Joyce Sloane, that is to say, THE Joyce Sloane, the woman who helped start it all, had asked me a question.
"Um. I'm going to get my lunch."
"Oh, great. Grab me something."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah, you can just get money from the box office."
"I can?"
"Yeah. I'll pay it back. Where are you going for lunch?"
The health nut that I was at the time, I had no high expectations for the meal I was about to have. I was dirt poor.
"McDonald's," I said, hesitantly. Surely, she wouldn't want-
"Great."
"You want McDonald's?"
"Yeah, I'll eat McDonald's."
"Okay...well...what do you want?"
"What do I want?! What are you having?"
"To be honest, probably chicken nuggets. I'm not fancy. It's...McDonald's."
"Well, I'll have that." My first of many lunch excursions for Joyce.
For the longest time, she thought I was another box office employee named Megan, and she would come in talking to me about the Cubs, a conversation she and Megan originally started because one of the players was really good looking. Joyce called him her boyfriend. After about a year, Joyce learned my name, but she still talked to me about baseball players, mentioning them by name, as if I had any clue what was going on.
She became my Facebook friend, meaning that someone set her up on Facebook, I sent her a friend request because she told me I had to, then I had to go into her office, log her back in and accept my own request from her account. Not the first time I'd helped her with her technology, of course, and it certainly wasn't the last. Every time I helped her with an email, I would find myself staring at the countless photos hanging on her walls, her office a complete scrapbook of Second City's history.
I fixed her drinks, I ate her candy, I found vases for her flowers, I hand delivered her mail, I checked which station was airing the Cubs game so she could watch, and I made sure the night staff knew to go in her office and look at all the stuff she wanted to give them--some scarves, a pair of gloves, old jackets, a shirt or two, and, for some reason, a box of apples and bananas. I was not the only person to do these things for her, of course. I was one of many, but that didn't make it any less special. We took care of her, she took care of us. That's just how it worked.
Because of Joyce, I was able to see Flight of the Conchords from house seats at McCormick Place just a few days after my grandfather's passing, something that I desperately needed at that time. A week or so later her cousins called requesting someone walk Joyce down to their car, which was parked outside, with an umbrella, as we were experiencing a downpour at the time. I hustled into her office with an old umbrella I located in lost and found.
"Hi there. I'm leaving."
"I know. I'm going to walk to you out."
"You don't have to do that."
"It's raining out."
"I'll be fine, hon."
"Yeah, but your cousins just called and asked me to."
"Oh, they drive me crazy! Well...if you must, let's go."
As we walked down the stairs, I thanked her again for helping me get the tickets to the show, talking briefly about how it was. As we exited the building she spotted car her cousins were driving at the time.
"There they-"
Incessant horn-honking began and hands were flailing out of every window.
"I see you!," she turned to me. "I can walk to the car, it's just a few feet."
"Joyce, I made a promise." I made certain that woman stayed dry under that umbrella until the car door closed. I didn't want to let Second City down and, plus, I felt as if I owed her that much.
I didn't recall these stories on Friday morning when I found out about her passing. I felt a little numb, shocked. I downplayed, or perhaps ignored, her impact on my day-to-day life because she was so much closer to other employees and cast members I knew. Even after three or more years of employment, I often feel a bit out of the loop when it comes to certain things. It wasn't until I walked into that building that I felt the emptiness one typically feels when they lose a loved one, a good friend. And all of these memories flooded my mind at once. I walked past Joyce's office without thinking, then I stopped. I recalled my last interaction with her. I was hurrying by, stressed about some work-related, new ticketing system nonsense.
"Boy, I need a drink," she said.
"I do too, Joyce. A stiff one!"
"A stiff one?"
"Come on, lady. Don't act like you don't know what a stiff drink is."
She chuckled. I realized later she probably wanted me to grab one of her signature cranberry and sodas from the bar. I didn't do it, because I simply felt I didn't have the time. I hope she forgave me because, in light of what has happened in the past couple of days, I cannot forgive myself for not doing one last favor for her. I thought, like everyone, I would have more chances.
She was a woman of great notoriety. She watched me come down from a high after meeting my hero, Catherine O'Hara, and then coaxed me to say hello to George Wendt the weekend of the 50th. All of my interactions with these people were a thing of beauty and something I will always remember, but I would have been just as satisfied to watch
her interact with them. They were her babies. Spending that weekend seated next to Joyce on her bench is, and will always be, one of the coolest things I will ever do in my life. When my mother flipped through all my photos from that weekend she asked who the woman on the bench was, and why we all crowded around her.
"That's Joyce," I said.
"Who's Joyce?," she asked.
Duh. How do you not know who Joyce is, person who does not work and live within my world? So, I gave my mother a crash course on Joyce Sloane and, when I was done, my she stared at me for several seconds.
"So, she's fascinating."
"To put it very simply, yeah. Yeah, she is fascinating."
She was. Not because of who she knew, who loved her, where she worked, or what she'd built. All of that, yes, was pretty fascinating. It was who she was as a person. It was the fact that a box office employee was just as interesting and important to her as the cast of SCTV. It was the stories she told, the spark that she had, and the way she encouraged those around her. Not many people in her position are that giving, considerate, or even passionate about what they do. She loved Second City, because she loved the people there. And now that she, our personal legend and comedy historian, is gone, there is a great void in that place. It is a sadness, and they are, indeed, shoes that can never be filled. But, she would yell at every single one of us if she caught us crying. That much I know, and that much I understand. It does not make saying goodbye any easier.
#2- We have lost Lindsay Lohan and the media needs to get over it. She's done. I know that Britney has recently returned from drug-induced crazy, but we can't have it all, America. The bitch stole shit. As did Winona Ryder, and now look. Who respects her? No one.Don't get me wrong. Everyone loves a shoplifter unless that shoplifter is someone other than themselves. (Don't tell me you never lifted a Lip Smackers lip gloss or a piece of candy as a kid.) But a $2,500 necklace? Gross. 
