It was a dark Sunday night in late November.
I was co-starring in a strange little play titled Winterthing in a strange little midwestern town called Fort Wayne.
One of the co-stars I was sharing the stage with was an eight-year-old wonder named Melanie. Her part required her to be a whiny little snot that inspired everyone to want to slap her. The good news was that even though she did the appropriate face-slapping inspiration on stage, in truth, she was a sweet gal with dark, shoulder-length hair, black, round-rimmed glasses, and a smile that could melt the hardest heart.
On the Sunday night in question, Beloved and I had been enlisted to take Melanie home with us for a sleepover while her parents were out of town. All three of us were looking forward to it, partly because it would involve Beloved and Melanie going with me to a strange little radio station while I did my once-a-week shift on the air, playing whatever songs I felt like. (Oh...those were the days!)
Part of the fun was ordering a pizza from the strange little shop across the street. (Are you old enough to remember when getting a pizza delivered was a smile-inducing, unique event?)
Melanie was oh so happy as she practically skipped into the studio carrying the pizza and gleefully placed it on the turntable that was playing the song currently going out to the tens of people listening live.
I screamed. Melanie screamed. We all screamed.
The pizza survived. The song did not. Melanie’s sense of confidence and well-being may have sustained a deadly blow.
No comments:
Post a Comment