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The Final Matinee

He reminds me of that choreographer - the one with the name like an artichoke. Years later a bushel of Post-its was found floating in the runoff. He had supposedly written them to a well-known patron of the arts. Someone even hired a college dropout to enter his jottings into a database hoping to discover a thread. Those things never seem to pan out. Like that fledgling paperworker with the color-coordinated gray matter. When the doorbell rang, he conjured a discounted scheme catching the solicitor off-guard. It was as hilarious as soap. They had to squeegee the pavilion for most of the month after a few of them visited the historic site on their lunch hour scattering crumpled-up brown paper bags. Fortunately the ground crew had been trained in skewering. The Instant Doppler technology incidentally didn't help one iota, but the ponchos, as colorful as cartoon characters, took up the slack. With so much going for them, it was a shock to hear that they walked off  leaving onlookers aghast. Matinees I suppose are as good a getaway as it gets. Next time I'll try to plan ahead a little better. If I had my druthers, I'd move the berm. Then we'd have an unobstructed view of the fisheries which only last year were saved from encroachment. Something to be said for those tele-marketers who insist on calling around dinnertime disrupting the passing of mustard and all that.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison