Opening Acts

Spellcast

  by Barbara Ashford

  SOME ENCHANTED EVENING

  On a scale of one to ten, the day had registered 9.5 on the Suck Scale even before I climbed into the bathtub with my bottle of Talisker. First, the "I'm sorry, but the recent merger means that we'll have to let some people go" speech at work. Then, the horrifically exuberant letter from some college classmate that exclaimed, "Hurry, Maggie! Only a few days left to register for our tenth reunion!"

  Now, it appeared to be snowing. Inside my bathroom.

  I gazed heavenward and frowned. A few moments ago, the crack in the ceiling had merely struck me as a depressing metaphor for my life. Now, it had blossomed into a giant spider web.

  Mesmerized by whisky and the sheer improbability of yet another disaster, I watched the web expand. Like a character in a movie who stands on the frozen lake while you're shouting at the screen, "The ice is breaking up, you moron!"

  When the first chunk of plaster struck my knee, I grabbed the Talisker and scrambled to safety. Seconds later, a chunk the size of my microwave plummeted into the tub, sending a small tidal wave lapping across my feet.

  I stared at the icebergs of plaster floating in the tub, at the gaping hole in my ceiling, at the water racing down the hallway. Then I did what any strong, self-reliant New Yorker would do after surviving the loss of her job and the reminder of ten years of lackluster achievement on both personal and professional fronts. I cried.

  After which I blew my nose, drained the tub, mopped up the mess, dried myself off, and called the super. By the time he rang the doorbell, I was already packing.