A Night at The Players: Where the Only Thing Older Than the Actors is the Gaslight Ah, The Players—where the air is thick with the aroma of arrogance, aged whiskey, and the faint scent of despair from actors who “never got their big break.” Located in a charmingly dilapidated mansion on Gramercy Park, The Players is essentially a shrine to the glory days of theater, where actors can gather to reminisce about triumphs long past while sipping overpriced cocktails and trade secrets about their moisturizer routines. One does wonder, however, if the building itself should be awarded the Edwin Booth Life Achievement Award for simply surviving the centuries while its members have come and gone, much like their hairlines. Upon entering, one is met not only with the grandiose gaslights—those relics of a time when “going green” meant not burning down the whole block—but also with portraits of long-forgotten thespians that arguably have more charisma than the current members. You see, while the actors may have aged gracefully—if by gracefully we mean like a fine cheese gone slightly off—the gaslights have retained a perpetual glow that makes one ponder whether they’re illuminating the past or just casting an unflattering light on the present. The ambiance is rich, or perhaps just overly seasoned with the lingering regrets of a million missed auditions. There’s an undeniable charm in the way members offer wry smiles and nod knowingly, as if to say, “Ah, yes, my dear, I too was passed over for a role in a low-budget local theater adaptation of King Lear. How quaint.” The discussions flit from one tragic theater anecdote to another, all while a buffet of canapés that have seen more action than the actors themselves waits silently on the table, growing cold in defiance of culinary progress. Then we come to the Grill Room, where dining is as theatrical as the members’ bios. Each bite of your unidentifiable entree is an experience, and not unlike the last play most of these attendees starred in, it often leaves you confused. The billiard table sits invitingly, yet it seems as though it has been used more for somber conversations than actual games, a metaphor for the lives of the members who much prefer to stand around, cue sticks in hand, reminiscing about cues they never actually received. And who could forget the revered Pipe Nights? It’s the one night where members gather to celebrate the contributions of theatrical notables while puffing away like a Victorian-era steam engine gone mad. Listening to these monologues, delivered with the passion of an actor auditioning for the role of a lifetime, one can’t help but marvel at their ability to revive ancient tales of triumph alongside tales of complete and utter failure—just like the time Edwin Booth, the founder himself, tried to convince the world that his brother’s only crime was poor career choices. As the evening drags on, the Dining Room transforms into a center stage for new works and staged readings—essentially a glorified version of karaoke night, but for the Broadway elite. Here, actors conjure the last remnants of their youthful ambitions, awkwardly reading lines with more dramatic flair than actual talent, while the gaslight flickers overhead, its gentle glow reminiscent of their once-bright careers dimming slowly into obscurity. When the clock edges towards midnight, and the aged owners of forgotten talent begin to retreat, the atmosphere shifts. The gaslights flicker, as if they too are exhausted from the weight of memories and nostalgia. It’s a grateful departure for the members who leave, knowing they can return to their ‘real’ lives of auditions, headshots, and the ever-vibrant hope of being cast in a production, any production, preferably one where they don’t have to wear gas masks—symbolizing both the stench of desperation and the allure of dream-chasing. So, when you find yourself walking through the hallowed halls of The Players, remember: here, the gaslight is not just your ambiance; it’s also a reminder that in this sacred space, the only thing older than the actors is the gaslight—and trust me, when it turns dim, so too do the dreams of those who still yearn for a chance to steal the spotlight once more.