Should have been a fast in and out, park right up front and scamper about dumping presents quick like the Easter Bunny. Unusual number of cars in the lot for a week after semester closing. I walk the near twenty cars down and roll in the side lobby to find tables draped in white linen and covered with chocolate strawberries, cheeses, all kinds of good things. The guards are alert in their chef disguises, and I cannot find so much as a book on a table. I turn to hearing clapping of hands, then look up. A banner proclaims that the governor’s here. Oh fucky-wucky, no chocolate for me.
I scatter about down one end of the hall to the other, done; turnaround, and the clappers are silent with strawberry-stuffed mouths. I sneak out the main door and hitch myself back into my car. Ahah, several people stayed properly for speeches but leave the food behind–what fools have it backwards! I slow, stop, let a man cross the driveway, give him a thumbs-up sign as I see who he is. He nods with a slow smile. Nobody else looks much like Geno Auriemma, and really, nobody wants to nudge him with a car.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology