Good Grief, John Boy - Part Nine
At 5:54 p.m. on Thursday, Jock (one of our regular customers) was in the shop and said, "Hey Clinton, was that your car that I saw being towed from the corner a while back?" A couple of frantic phone calls later revealed the whole story. To get my car out of stir required the entirity of my unpaid tickets, the towing charge, the tow company's "We're tacking on an extra charge just to fuck with you some more" charge, and $15 a night "car sitting in our lot" charge. I didn't have any of that, so I hung up the phone.
My shift had ended at 6:00 p.m. Lucky me, I still had time. I stomped up to the bus stop and waited for the last bus home, contemplating my situation. First crisis first. Tonight was opening night. The show started at 7:30 p.m. Act I ran about an hour and then had a 15 minute intermission. My entrance was half way though the second act, we'll say 15 minutes at the most conservative estimate. The theater was a 37 minute drive from my house. If the bus got me home at 7:30 (estimated latest possible time), there was a chance that I could catch Gregg before he left. If not, even if someone had to come from Nelson County to get me, I would still get to the theater right at the beginning of the second act. Okay, that was looking good. On to Crisis Two. In my car were my shirt, my shoes, (for my costume) plus my knapsack with my cell phone. For that matter, there was also my sweat jacket (what the kids today call "a hoodie"). Though it had been cool this morning, it was downright cold now, and I had on just a tee shirt and a thin, thin sweater. On the plus side, the sweater was maroon, so maybe that would be close enough to the dark, red, plaid for Boomie's taste. That and the sandals would have to do, because that's all I had. Now, for Crisis Three ... the car ... nope, still didn't have the money. I sat there mulling that over and dreaming, for the umpteenth hundred time in my life, of heated bus terminals.
The bus got me home at 7:13 p.m. Gregg had already left so I called the theater. Boomie sent Peter. Peter called his wife, Mary, who was on her way down to the show from picking up their daughter in D.C. They were 15 minutes south of Charlottesville. They turned around, got me, and took me, still shivering, down to the play.
Boomie, terribly relieved to see me, asked if I knew what I was going to do about my car. No. I asked about this new costume idea she had. "Oh yeah," she said and off she went with me trailing behind. The sweater she could deal with. The sandals she still didn't mind. She pulled out this large black, felt, cloak; threw it over me; and tied it around my neck. It wasn't large enough to close in front of me but it did fall over my shoulders. On top of that, she threw this black, felt snood around my neck (arragned it under my dreads) so that it covered up the "V" neck of the sweater and the tie of the cloak. "There," she said.
"What? This?" I said, imagining I looked like a strange cross between a vampire and a monk. Yes, that. It was opening night in Nelson County, and at the inaugural show of the Earl Hamner, Jr. Theater the audience didn't know from cars, unpaid tickets, and unfair cities. They just wanted a show ... I just hoped they wanted one with the 1933, obese, Baptist, Rastafarian, car-less, vampire monk giving Clay Boy another image of his father.
My shift had ended at 6:00 p.m. Lucky me, I still had time. I stomped up to the bus stop and waited for the last bus home, contemplating my situation. First crisis first. Tonight was opening night. The show started at 7:30 p.m. Act I ran about an hour and then had a 15 minute intermission. My entrance was half way though the second act, we'll say 15 minutes at the most conservative estimate. The theater was a 37 minute drive from my house. If the bus got me home at 7:30 (estimated latest possible time), there was a chance that I could catch Gregg before he left. If not, even if someone had to come from Nelson County to get me, I would still get to the theater right at the beginning of the second act. Okay, that was looking good. On to Crisis Two. In my car were my shirt, my shoes, (for my costume) plus my knapsack with my cell phone. For that matter, there was also my sweat jacket (what the kids today call "a hoodie"). Though it had been cool this morning, it was downright cold now, and I had on just a tee shirt and a thin, thin sweater. On the plus side, the sweater was maroon, so maybe that would be close enough to the dark, red, plaid for Boomie's taste. That and the sandals would have to do, because that's all I had. Now, for Crisis Three ... the car ... nope, still didn't have the money. I sat there mulling that over and dreaming, for the umpteenth hundred time in my life, of heated bus terminals.
The bus got me home at 7:13 p.m. Gregg had already left so I called the theater. Boomie sent Peter. Peter called his wife, Mary, who was on her way down to the show from picking up their daughter in D.C. They were 15 minutes south of Charlottesville. They turned around, got me, and took me, still shivering, down to the play.
Boomie, terribly relieved to see me, asked if I knew what I was going to do about my car. No. I asked about this new costume idea she had. "Oh yeah," she said and off she went with me trailing behind. The sweater she could deal with. The sandals she still didn't mind. She pulled out this large black, felt, cloak; threw it over me; and tied it around my neck. It wasn't large enough to close in front of me but it did fall over my shoulders. On top of that, she threw this black, felt snood around my neck (arragned it under my dreads) so that it covered up the "V" neck of the sweater and the tie of the cloak. "There," she said.
"What? This?" I said, imagining I looked like a strange cross between a vampire and a monk. Yes, that. It was opening night in Nelson County, and at the inaugural show of the Earl Hamner, Jr. Theater the audience didn't know from cars, unpaid tickets, and unfair cities. They just wanted a show ... I just hoped they wanted one with the 1933, obese, Baptist, Rastafarian, car-less, vampire monk giving Clay Boy another image of his father.
posted by - caj at 8:17 PM
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