Why am I here?
Here was a seedy bar in get-me-the-fuck-out-of-here Maine. I'd hated all four years, but the advent of my tenth high school reunion had me returning to my small town like a swallow to Capistrano. There wasn't enough Facebook stalking on the planet to feed my schadenfreude-fueled fantasies about how much better my life was than the hicks I'd left behind.
I certainly hadn't come back to spend time with my mother. They say that the mother-daughter bond improves once the daughter ages out of being a difficult teenager, but we'd certainly done our best to disprove that theory.
Why am I here?
Right, because after another round of accusations thrown back and forth, I'd left the house and begun to drive aimlessly. Nothing else was open. And the allure of a glass of wine, even a piss-poor one, had been overpowering.
Was avoiding my mother worth bleeding from my eardrums? Either way, more alcohol was going to be necessary.
This part of Maine is littered with dead zones. No scrolling on Twitter, no updating Facebook, no bitching on Whatsapp or Messenger. I tried to brace myself for misguided attempts at country, screaming rock lyrics, and unfortunate attempts at the current pop hits. I imagined they'd make a charming counterpoint to the various sounds made when one's mouth is so close to a microphone that one might as well be fellating it.
I decided to ignore the impending cacophony and read a thriller I'd downloaded to my phone before beginning the trek north. It was topping the New York Times Bestseller List, not that anyone in this room had likely ever read the Gray Lady.
My head snapped up when I heard the opening notes of "The Impossible Dream," from
Man of LaMancha
. Broadway?
Here?
To dream the impossible dream/To fight the unbeatable foe/To bear with unbearable sorrow/To run where the brave dare not go...
The room didn't appreciate the scene that was unfolding in front of them. A baritone with perfect pitch.
