Last Thursday I broke my rule about getting out of bed before the sun comes up in order to put in some early-morning work on the high school production of Carousel that I just finished. It was more of a roller coaster than a merry-go-round ride, which is why I'm just now getting around to writing this post, but all's well that ends well, as Shakespeare put it.
I stopped into the high school office that morning to identify myself as a "visitor" (solidifying my claim on the Visitor's parking spot that I had snagged) and discovered that someone else had plans for the auditorium that morning: the U.S. Army was there to administer the ASVAB test. Not only would my plans to fine-tune the stage lighting be distracting, my very presence in the room -- even in the ceiling two stories up -- would be "a violation of federal law."
The school receptionist seemed sympathetic to my cause (the show opened that night, and I was running short on time), but the rather self-important-seeming Army recruiter wasn't interested in compromise. I told her that I'd be glad to turn the lights back on when she was ready to start her test, and headed out of the office before she could finish protesting.
The gym teacher eyed me suspiciously as I made my way to the auditorium. "You're not a student here, are you?" she asked uncertainly, dispelling once and for all my illusions that I look distinguished and professional in a pantsuit. "No," I replied, "they're all out of visitors' badges." She didn't look entirely convinced, but at least she didn't insist that I report to my homeroom teacher for a hall pass.
A few minutes later I had ascended to my perch in the auditorium ceiling and was in the process of hanging a disco ball when someone called my name from the stage below. "They said to tell the 'little girl' who's doing the lights that the Army is going to give their test somewhere else."
"Little girl," one. U. S. Army, zero. Not a bad way to start the day.
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