The first time I ever had sushi was with Michel Jarovsky.

He was the artistic director of Capitol City Playhouse in Austin, Texas. Our production of Ain't Misbehavin' had turned into a regional favorite. We were having our third run and it was profitable. I don't know why I showed up early. I don't know why he asked me to come with him. I remember the weather was gorgeous, one of those breezy, sunny, blue sky days that happen all the time in the South when it's cold everyplace else in the world. Austin is full of days like those.

Michel (pronounced Michelle) usually looked like a banker, replete with moustache, wire-rimmed glasses and responsible countenance--on this particular day, he wore a dark three-piece suit--but with us he was a rip-roaring riot. I can remember sitting in his office on numerous occasions and laughing so hard at the stuff he said and did that I very nearly wet my pants. God, he was fun.

At this particular juncture in my life, I could be brutally, unintentionally frank and I think he loved me for that. My mouth was a loaded revolver that I shot off at will like the Mexican outlaw in the gunslinging Hollywood B-movie of lore: layered in leather, ammunition belts criss-crossing my chest, gun holsters strapped to my thighs, a bottle of hooch in one hand, I rode through the streets on my pony, screaming obscenities and terrifying the town.

Ah, those were the days.

In time, the words became music that would would twist itself up in me and when I opened my mouth and sang, and I would pistol-whip the world with the power that seemed to live in my voice.

Michel loved my gun mouth and the voice that came out of it.

The sushi was fun. We went to Kyoto on Congress Ave. just a few blocks away. I remember asking a million stupid questions. He couldn't believe I'd never tasted sushi, and he was delighted to show me something new. Later, we wandered back to the theater, arm in arm like little children, laughing and talking, both of us stuffed to the gills.

When Capitol City Playhouse was torn down recently, everyone said it would kill Michel. A few weeks ago, I heard he'd suffered a cocaine-induced heart attack on I-35, the main interstate slicing through the city, and passed away at the wheel in high traffic. He was only 45. He was flat broke with no insurance. He left behind seven children and an unemployed wife.

It was in his theater that I began to "disappear", to simply remove myself from the procedure of speaking lines and interacting and allow something much greater than me to take over. All that Stanislavski and Boleslavski and what they said about allowing inspiration to intervene finally made sense. It isn't self-induced. It's like being in a trance. Some performers go their whole careers and never experience this. For me, it started in that little theater with Michel.

I wish I could have told him that.