In the last stanza of this evening’s mandatory Send in the Clowns, I get a frantic tapping on the shoulder by a frazzled new server who half whisper-shouts:
“My table is asking me things about you that I have no idea how to answer like where you’re from and where you went to school and how long you’ve been working here and what is that song you’re playing and who wrote it and so will you PLEASE go talk to them?”
I dutifully finish up and walk over to three pretty women, fascinating.
(Incidentally, they are also at the end of their meal so they are also, sipping coffee.)
Making my entrance again with my usual flair, I’m so very sure of my lines:
“Hi, I’m sorry to interrupt. I hope everything has been lovely. I understand that you have a few questions for me.”
I am met by silence and very blank stares.
Something in them chills the air.
Finally, one of them says, “Who are you?”
Don’t you love farce?
I greeted each of these ladies warmly as they were being seated, was in their clear view as I played for the entire dining room and finally made a resonating musical connection with them. And yet while I remained on the ground, they were obviously in mid-air.
Isn’t it queer?
That I too have very often failed to credit and recognize the one powerful giver of the many blessings I enjoy each day. The distractions of tearing around and thinking everyone wants what I want does make me loose my timing. I need to stop being that clown.