When I learned my Broadway play Sacrilege was closing after only 29 performances, I turned to an old Broadway pro for guidance; someone who could deliver both praise and criticism with a punchline, and if you didn’t get it, he’d put it to you straight.

I called Jules Feiffer.

We met on the set of Popeye starring Robin Williams. My girl group, the Steinettes, played Olive Oyl’s best friends. Jules was the screenwriter.

I blew our first hello by gushing to the acclaimed screenwriter, playwright and future Pulitzer Prize-winning cartoonist, “Oh, Jules, I just love your cartoon. What have you done with Dr. Millmoss? That’s my favorite.” Jules deadpanned, “That’s Thurber.” He couldn’t have been too offended by my faux pas because a few years later he, Calvin (Bud) Trillin, and the Steinettes collaborated on an ill-fated musical for the Public Theatre. Weekly meetings were a non-stop laugh fest of scene readings, improv and unrestrained noshing.

Jules’ work method was to “follow the impulse” while Bud was more circumspect. As an aspiring writer, I noted the necessity of both.

Later still, my friend Julie of the Steinettes and I vacationed in Martha’s Vineyard with Jules and his then wife, writer Jenny Allen. We stayed in Jules’ barnlike studio. We opened the door one night to be greeted by a big black bat frantically seeking escape. We no sooner reported the intruder than Jules and dinner guest Ward Just, armed with a mop and broom, went all out bat chasing.

They emerged victorious having confined the creature to the bathroom. It was a pleasure to see the jovial twosome in the cool Vineyard air; happy in their friendship, strolling back to the house. The bat was liberated the following morning, and Julie and I were off, back to the city.

So that’s how I found myself after a number of years waiting for Jules Feiffer outside the Belasco Theatre. Seeing him walk toward me after a performance of Sacrilege brought a rush of emotion that clearly took him off guard.

“All right, c’mon now, it’s all right, let’s talk,” he said.

We went for drinks at the bar next door where Jules immediately launched into a barrage of vitriol about critics: “They don’t know anything. They don’t want to know the truth. They don’t want to be challenged. I walked away.” (After poor reviews of Elliot Loves, Jules abandoned the theatre only to return years later to warmer receptions).

He continued: “Diane, I know it’s hard not to take it personally, but it’s not you. They just didn’t get it. It’s not you.”

Whether true or not, his sympathy and support had me crying over my club soda.

Jules lit up. “Look at you! You’re crying! This is wonderful!”

I protested.

“It is!” he exclaimed. “It’s life! It’s the theatre! It’s wonderful!”

It was then I understood it wasn’t my tears that delighted him, it was the ride, the fast-formed family troupe, the opening night, only to pack it up and say goodbye a month later.

In the end, Jules was saying, “You’re all right. Carry on.”

I sprang for a cab home that night. I was suddenly feeling rich.

It’s been decades since I’ve seen Jules. Memories dim. But when I read that he’d passed away, there he was beside me at the bar, leaning forward, grinning and saying, “It’s life. It’s the theatre. It’s wonderful.”

Yes, Jules. It's wonderful. It's following the impulse. It's crying and delighting and saying goodbye.

Standing ovation. Bravo.

Diane Shaffer lives in Harrisburg, Pa.