I had to book a room in a theatre complex for my improv team as none of us have large living rooms/we wanted to be able to yell, sing and jump as much as we wanted – something important to consider when booking space for an improv team, and also something important to consider in general life.
I got to the space a bit early so I could pick up the keys. I opened the lobby door turned the corner and as I hit the stairs I was immediately confronted by walls two inches thick with dust and three inches thick with indie theatre production fliers from the ‘80s. When I got to the top of the stairs, I was unenthusiastically greeted by a fabulous gay man, who clearly also reached his theatrical prime in the ‘80s.
He asked me who I was and I reacted equally unenthusiastically with an “Ashley, we spoke on the phone earlier.” His face lit up, his posture straightened and with a big hand gesture he starts to saying “Ashley! Ashley!”
It’s one of those moments where you wish someone else was there to share in how ridiculous this guy is, but you’re also relieved because that would have been embarrassing as fuck.
I didn’t know how to react, so I flashed him a confused stare since saying “yes, it’s me Ashley, the girl you spoke to on the phone” didn’t seem like the appropriate response.
I knew I was in trouble as soon as I got a stern “don’t you know where that’s from?” A quick brain scan came back with nothing but a debate about whether pretending to know it would get me out of there sooner.
“Gone with the Wind! It’s from Gone with the Wind!” He continued to call me “Ashley!” for the rest of the conversation, which was both terrifying and strangely respectable if only for the commitment.
He then gestured me away and directed me to look for “the marginal looking man with strawberry blond hair, the type of fellow who looks like he hasn’t showered in a few days” in order to get the keys. While totally a dick move, I knew who he was talking about immediately.