We’d planned it all out; a real-life Ferris Bueller’s day off. No, this wouldn’t involve a red sports car or a high-end lunch, more like a black minivan and an IHOP brunch. But a fun time was a certainty. At tuck in, my wife and I surprised Boogie Down and Big Deal with a manufactured holiday. "Tomorrow," we told them, "we're heading to Ford’s Theater in DC to see a matinee, Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol! Sweet dreams, boys." We turned out their light and let the sugar plums begin their dance.
If you’re wondering about Baby Dynamite, there was just no way. Bold, opinionated, defiant, occasionally inappropriate and afraid of everything, the risk of causing a commotion not seen since Abraham Lincoln’s last visit was too great. No thanks, we’d learned this costly lesson last summer at Disney World. We took solace in the fact that the play was not recommended for children under 5. Big Deal, age 8, voiced some concerns which I quickly put to rest. “I’ve seen this play twice years ago. It’s not scary,” I assured, “it’s fun!” This was going to be smooth sailing, a day for the memory book.
Bellies full from brunch, we arrived early enough to pay a visit to the Petersen House located just across from the theater. The row house where our 16th President took his last breath now serves as a museum. I never knew that William Petersen, the man who offered his boarding house to the mortally wounded president, later died on a park bench in front of the Smithsonian red castle. Falling prey to a “Quack Doctor”, Petersen became a drug addict and lost all he had. A history teacher, I was eating this stuff up. My sons bounced from exhibit to exhibit like pinballs, they were loving it too. Stopping only occasionally to exchange punches. “Cut it out, guys! Over here look, this is John Wilkes Booth…”
Interesting as it was, my wife and I had not called SAM (the Substitute Assignment Manager) to gaze into the morbid past. We’d come for merry caroling, ghostly humbugs and Figgy pudding (Figgy pudding? I’ll look that one up later…http://www.npr.org/sections/thesalt/2015/12/20/460488236/oh-bring-us-some-wait-what-is-figgy-pudding). And it was almost showtime!
The stage was set. Mid-19th century London was before us. The faux storefronts and twinkling stage lights reminded me how much I love plays. “We’ve got to do this more often,” I whispered to my wife. My boys were excited, nestled into their comfy theater seats, flipping through their programs. I was certain the young lady behind me would stop rocking my seat with her foot once the show began. The lights dimmed; it was time.
Two young children dressed as London paupers took center stage and made a ”put your cellphones away” plea using their best cockney accents. I made sure mine was set on “vibrate”, no way would I be the one to disturb this intimate theater experience. From behind, the theater aisles thronged with stage actors decked in top hats, cravats, petticoats, and muffs, all muttering about this and that, interacting with the audience as they funneled on stage. Big Deal and Boogie Down were smiling ear to ear. My wife beamed. I grinned. My seat throbbed. “Not going to say anything,” I told myself. “No need to ruin this great time; she's bound to get tired." Enter the ghost of Jacob Marley.
A deafening thunderclap, a column of smoke and there he was. Rattling his chains, Jacob Marley’s ghost appeared belting, “Ebenezer Scrooge, Ebeneeeezer Scrooooooooooge!” Big Deal plugged his ears and plunged into my lap. I marveled at the stage effects, how the portrait of Jacob Marley came to life. CLAP! More thunder. Big Deal wanted no part of it. His faint sobbing became louder and louder. "Scrooooooooge!" Just as the play hit a silent note, Big Deal yelled, “I don’t want to be here anymore! I want to leave! I want to leave!” Heads turned with that polite “get that kid outta here” smile. The time had come to stand and take the tightrope walk down the row, stepping on toes as we headed to the wide-open space of the aisle. “Excuse us.” “Sorry.” “Pardon us.” We swung open the rear double doors. It seemed like we’d invited the sun itself into the dark theater. There we were, standing on the red lobby carpet. My blood boiling.
“You are way too big for this...” I started. “What is the problem? We paid way too much on these…” Suddenly, as I peered into his teary eyes, I remembered.
There I was, standing in a 1978 movie theater bathroom with my father. I was sobbing. We’d come to see Jaws. He was reluctant to take me, but somehow I’d gotten my way. I made it as far as the opening scene; as soon as that tuba sounded, (Da-Dum, Da-Dum), I was Da-DONE! I recall my father, was upset. “I spent 7 dollars on these tickets for you to last 7 minutes?” His voice flattened, “Come on son, let’s go home.” I’ll never forget that quiet ride home, I felt terrible. What was wrong with me? How could I be such a wimp? How could I waste my Dad’s money? His time? Pulling on to our street, my father turned and told me about a time he’d done the same thing. I instantly felt better. He told of when my “Grand Daddy Ransom” had taken him to the movie house to see Frankenstein, quite an undertaking in the segregated city of 1940s’ New Orleans. Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory had dispatched my dad, the same as that tuba did me…the same as Jacob Marley had done my son, Big Deal.
Big Deal and I sat down on the red-carpeted balcony steps. I suspended my rant and placed my arm around his shoulders. We waited for those horrid sounds to still behind the old double doors. “You ready to try again?” I asked. He wasn’t sure. “Son, if you want to leave again, we can. As many times as you need, buddy.” Tears dried and confidence renewed, we let the sun once again pour into the dark theater. “Excuse us.” “Sorry.” “Pardon us” Back to my seat. Yes, it was still rocking. At this point, I did not dare complain.
Big Deal lasted through two more ghosts. The Ghost of Christmas Future would prove too much. Making preparations to exit the theater again, my wife gave me that glance. It was her turn.
After the final “God bless us…Everyone!” It was time to go home. On the walk back to the car, Big Deal commented, “That was a great play! I loved it!” He had a wonderful time. We all had a wonderful time.
What if I had continued my rant and chastised him for being too, well, too much like his dad? Like his Grandpa? I wonder what his comment would have been then.
Thank goodness for memories.