The day started with singing. Not my singing, of course, considering I am absolutely tone deaf, but singing from the blue jays sitting on the big oak trees just outside my tent. "Don't they ever stop migrating?" I said aloud to myself. At least they aren't menacing crows, I thought. I glanced down at my watch. Almost 7:30! I shot up, only to hit my head on the top of the tent and cause it to collapse around me. I untangled myself, crawled out, and sighed. I took a deep breath of the forest as I stood, staring at the mess I just made out of my fairly new living arrangement. Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn, I thought hesitantly, trying to convince myself it was no big deal. No big deal that I can't afford the rent at the Castle Apartments, or a stay at Motel 2. No big deal keeping the Sawmill Theater working and running on my own, while constantly adding to the (costly) movie reel library. The theater! I'd almost forgot. Yet again I would be late to open up the doors. Leaving a heap of tent and sleeping bag behind, I hopped on my mountain bike and rode towards the entrance of Sherwood Park and the certainty of a fresh waffle. With the way the day was going, a warm waffle would be welcome. It's not easy having a good time, even smiling makes my face ache. Too bad I'm not smiling.
As I finally rode out of the cast iron gate marking the entrance to the park, I immediately smelled some sort of odor. I love the smell of Napalm in the morning. Smells like victory. There's no way this slightly odorous smell was napalm, but that doesn't mean it can't mean victory... right? Obviously I was to the point of desperation for a good sign. As I grabbed my morning breakfast of a waffle with milk, to-go (all I have to do is ride through the drive-thru at this point; since I'm a regular they already have my meal ready), the smell was replaced by the strong scent of waffle batter. That smell certainly means victory. My smell on the other hand, did not. The day was growing steadily hotter and I was sweating grossly. You wanna know one of my secrets? Don't gross me out.
As I pulled out the keys to the Sawmill, I saw my watch. 8:45. Only fifteen minutes to take a shower in the old sawmill locker room in the basement (the one old workers used to use), open the doors to the public, and put on the first reel of the day, Casablanca. -sigh- So maybe today wouldn't be so victorious, but what's better than starting off with a good classic? And who knows, maybe today the 9 o'clock showing of The Help would draw a crowd?
With the heave of an old rusty industrial strength switch, the theater lights flickered on. Clock time says 8:55... Here's looking at you, kid.
