It's Saturday Night

The lights turn on, and the cameras begin to move into place. I smell sawdust and fresh paint from the sets that were built this week. Donny Carter, the head writer, stands in front of our miniscule audience and explains the cues to commercial and when it’s okay to laugh. I check my watch; its 11:25, which means that in just five minutes the show will start and, by connection, so will I.

Lorne Michaels comes out and gives us his regular pep talk about how this show is unique and we need to put the same amount of effort into it as we do all of our shows.  He gives it every week, and I know it almost by heart, but I listen to it as if I never have before, because this week I’m standing on the set. This week, I’m a member of the cast.

Soon the speech is over and seconds are hurdling by. The assistant camera guy, Joe Wilcox, begins to count down.

“10…9…8…” My heart is pumping in my chest. I look at the audience, then Lorne, then the floor.

“7…6…5…4…” What if nobody laughs? What if I start talking and nobody gets it and nobody laughs?

“…3…” They will laugh.

“…2…” They have to.

“…1…” Before I can even think one more negative thought, I am on air, talking and acting and being my character. It’s an impersonation of a well-known governor. People are cracking up and I’m hoping it’s because I’m doing a good job. Other cast members are pretending to be a part of the audience, and they’re asking me questions that set the governor up to look bad. It’s a well-known skit we’ve been doing since the show started back in 1975.

We’re nearing the end of the skit and I see Joe Wilcox give me a crooked grin as I excitedly shout, ”And live from New York, IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT!” The theme song starts up with a vibrant blast of brass that sends a shiver down my spine. The audience applauds wildly and Lorne gives me a wink that says you did it kid. I smile and walk off set; I’m not in any other skits tonight, but I will be next week and the week after that. I did it. I really did it.

It all started when I was a junior at the University of Chicago. I was low on cash but tired of my usual boring part-time jobs. I didn’t want to throw away every weekend waitressing at some diner or cashiering at some convenience store anymore. I wanted something satisfying, that would get me somewhere after college too. It had been my dream since middle school to be a screenwriter for Saturday Night Live, because I’d watched the show since infancy and I would’ve done anything to be a part of it.

I had an above-average YouTube following on a channel where I posted all sorts of musical parodies, impersonations, and pop culture twists. I wasn’t sponsored by YouTube or anything, but I had about 9000 subscribers which may as well have been the population of the world to me.

I decided I’d go for the real ticket-to-comedy, right there in Chicago. Second City: the birthplace of comedians like Dan Akroyd, Bill Murray, Tina Fey, Steve Carrell, Amy Poehler, and countless others. Based in Chicago and Toronto, this club was the way into SNL, I was sure. I sent an audition tape along with a link to my YouTube channel and a carefully written resume. I called, mailed, and came to several shows, and one day I was finally accepted.

It started out slow as I learned the art of comedy improvisation and how to walk away when nobody’s laughing. Just like anything else in life, I went through trial and error finding out what worked for me and also what didn’t work for me. Once I got a feel for improvising, I utilized it and milked it like a cow. People were laughing, and because of that I was getting noticed. It wasn’t much at first, but here and there my name began to pop up in online reviews and insider theater magazines.

I wasn’t making much in cash but I was given a free Second City dorm which was a load off my expensive one at UC. On great nights I got tips from the audience and sometimes even bonuses from my boss. Another girl at Second City, Morgan Lee, was also a rising star in the comedy world. I admired her talent and even told her so, but unfortunately the feeling was not mutual.

Morgan made it her mission to degrade me in front of all press and agents in my proximity. SNL talent agents would constantly come to Second City in secret, and Morgan would make my characters awkward and boring on stage by pushing them out for her own. Once, she even told a reporter lies about how I’d copied one of her monologues just so I could get a laugh for once in my lifetime. The article was not published, but I was still mortified.

I tried to ignore her and keep progressing at Second City. It wasn’t long before I graduated college and began at Second City full-time for more money and for more experience. I was even offered positions in local commercials, and was given an agent by my manager. It seemed like jobs were flying my way, despite what Morgan told them and she wasn’t getting a third of the job offers I was.

My magic moment happened in the winter of 2022 on an evening covered in snow and Christmas tinsel. I was doing a character I’d come up with years before, a kind of hypochondriac soccer mom that I could fit into almost any improvised situation. Her name was Roz, and people never stopped laughing when she appeared on stage. There was an SNL talent agent in the audience and Morgan and I both knew it. Morgan was trying to push my character out of the scene by being a no-nonsense-doctor, but I persisted and wouldn’t let her.

After the show I nervously removed my make-up backstage hoping that the agent would talk to me. I was about halfway through cleaning out my mascara when a woman with blonde pigtails and glasses appeared behind me with a clipboard. “Are you Ella Rowen?” She asked amiably.

“Why yes, I am!” I replied immediately.

“Hello, I’m Tamara Walker from the selection committee of Saturday Night Live. We’re always looking for new writers and I was wondering if you’d like to submit a script for audition?” I couldn’t believe it. A writing position on SNL? Of course I would audition!

“Yes, definitely! When and where?” I responded, my head spinning. She began to write an address on her clipboard and promptly ripped it off and handed it to me.

“Just send your script to this address and we’ll give you a call if we think you’d be right for our show.” She gave me a grin and turned around heading for the door. “Good luck; I thought you were great tonight,” she said.

It felt like centuries went by before I got the call. Shows came and went, and so did I. Second City became a continuous and seemingly monotonous cycle of similar characters and similar disputes with Morgan. She was not in any way happy about my audition offer, and I doubted she ever would be. After all, they didn’t come to her with any good news. I should’ve been happy, but I mainly just felt sorry for her.

I was backstage when I got the call, and everybody knew what it was about when I began to shriek and hop around like a rabid elephant. My manager gave me a hug and asked me when I was starting. In just two weeks they’d said, which wasn’t much notice, but it was definitely enough for me. There was crying and laughing and hugging when I left, and said goodbye to the people I had literally been living with since I’d started at Second City. Except for Morgan, who gave me a snotty, “Hope they don’t hate your ideas.” before exiting the building. Whatever. I didn’t care.

I worked as a screenwriter for about six months at SNL until Lorne decided I would be even better as a cast member. I was overjoyed, and completely amazed by my accomplishments. I was living my lifetime dream, and at just 24 years old! The only problem was that, if I became a cast member, they would need a writer to fill my spot, and they didn’t know who to choose. So, in a move that defied all reason, I told them about a girl that would fit the position perfectly. A girl who was hilarious, and talented, and completely full of herself. I told them to fill my position with a girl named Morgan Lee, and that is exactly what they did.

Morgan was astonished when she found out it was my recommendation that gave her the job. She called me and told me immediately how thankful she was, and that she was sorry for treating me the way she had been treating me. She apologized and I forgave her. Morgan and I became comedy partners, writing perfect scripts in synchronization, and because of her, I will be talked about in the media tomorrow with a positive attitude. Because of Morgan, I will always be laughed at and because of me she will always be supported.

The show’s at commercial now, and I’m wondering if I can go and join the audience without bothering anyone. Tamara, the agent who changed my life, comes to congratulate me for my first show. “I knew when I went to see you, that you would make history some day.” She says confidently, “That’s why I know you’ll do great things for this show.”

“Tam, I don’t know what to say!” and I don’t.

“It doesn’t matter what you say, as long as you keep people laughing,” she says, and, with that I begin to laugh too.

“Thank you so much Tam. I don’t know what I’d be without you.”

Morgan walks towards us from the writer’s room too, holding a bouquet of flowers. “We did it!” she squeals excitedly. She hands me the flowers and throws her arms around me.

I pat her on the back and look back the set and the glowing audience and Lorne’s smug expression. This is just the start for me.

“Yes. Yes we did.”

This essay that I'm not going to use

The bottle washed up onto the Guatemalan seashore one day, off the coast of a tiny fishing village. Wrapped in seaweed and dipped in salt, the green glass no longer had a manufactured luster, but was rubbed rough and grainy by its sandy environment.

Seventeen days later, a man dragging a canoe tripped over these rocks as he walked past. He was at that stage of old where all the mottled skin on his face just seemed to fold over another pallet of skin. The face that completed the picture was tanned and leathery, from a life in the sun. It was Wednesday morning, a little after dawn.

He had not come this far down the beach for a long time. The fish had been plentiful enough closer to home, and in his age it was becoming harder to walk great distances, especially when he had to drag his canoe and supplies behind him. This week however, the fish supply had dwindled, and so he had to move down the coast. They are tired of coming down to see me, so I must come to see them, the old man thought, smiling.

But he had stumbled over something-something he hadn’t noticed before. Leaving his canoe in the sand (his arms sighed with relief) he reached down and gingerly picked the strange object off of the ground. He scraped the seaweed off of the glass with his fingernail.

He noticed a rudimentary cork stopped in the top of the bottle. Becoming excited, he twisted the cork out of the rim of the glass. Holding the bottle up to his eye, he looked inside, resembling a sea captain peering through a telescope. A tiny scroll of paper floated from the bottom of the bottle to his eyelid. The man removed the scroll and unraveled it quickly, eager to see the message inside. He read it quickly, then frowned.

Follow your bliss.

He turned the message over, as if there would be a translation into Spanish, or even Mam, his Mayan language. Picking the canoe off the ground once again, he pocketed the message and resolved to ask his son, who spoke a little English, to translate later.

Follow your bliss is a maxim first stated by mythologist Joseph Campbell, but introduced to me by my father. It seems easy enough to follow and yet is somehow one of the most challenging goals to realize. My father says it when I am feeling most unsure about my future. Can I do everything I want? Is it realistic? Is it selfish to want something this badly? It is basically permission that yes, my dream is worth working for, and that yes, I should try. Once I had that mantra in my head I knew nothing could keep me from my goals. Once I had that mantra in my head, I wanted to share it with as many people as possible.

When the old man showed his son the message that evening, his son looked at it for a minute, then smiled.

“¿Qué significa?” the old man asked eager to know the meaning of the mysterious message.

“Esto significa, ‘siga su sueño.’” He smiled at his father, who laughed.

“Mi hijo, que es exactamente lo que he hecho,” the old man said wistfully. That was exactly what he had done.  He knew it was true too—he had lived his life honestly, had a family, and worked hard.

On Suppressing Doubt

 I wrote this for my AP Euro Summer Assignment :)

It is rare to find a historical work that is as engaging as A World Lit Only By Fire. Historian William Manchester wrote the text in a narrative style, a literary choice that some critics believe lessened his credibility as a historical author. The critics have it all wrong, however—it is his style which makes the book work. While the main text focuses on Magellan, the controversies of the Roman Catholic Church, and the eventual fall of the church, it is the minute details that paint the image of the age. These facts make the book more accessible to modern readers; it shows that humans were still motivated by the same forces that motivate humans today. By making this period of time fascinating, Manchester is able to present his thesis to an intrigued reader—that the ten centuries of the Middle Ages were corrupt, ignorant, and ruled by an all too powerful church. The latter half of the book focuses on Ferdinand Magellan’s trip around the globe, and how his quest to explore juxtaposes itself with the era’s negative view of knowledge. Overall, the book explores how the church’s attempt to suppress doubt achieved nothing except facilitating it.

            Based on Manchester’s descriptions of daily life in the Middle Ages one could conclude that he agrees with Thomas Hobbes that, at that time at least, life was “nasty, brutish, and short.” (92) He spends a great deal of the work setting up the circumstances of the time period-from the fall of the Roman Empire to the rise of the Roman Catholic Church (and eventual decline) and by describing the lives of every class of people he shows how people viewed the world, and this helps to explain why the world was really only lit by fire, to be frank. Bathing was irregular. Promiscuity was a way of life. Illiteracy was high. People believed in mythological legends—fairies and curses and superstitions. (67-68)This, according to Manchester, is why this period of darkness could continue for so long and why it only took a few voices (of humanists and especially of Martin Luther’s) to bring the entire institution of Europe crumbling down. Manchester wrote the work almost as a war between the power of the church and the various threats to the Vatican by knowledge. The printing press, Martin Luther, and Leonardo da Vinci all made dents in the control of the church. (140)Eventually Magellan circumnavigated the world and this revelation in the value of knowledge for knowledge’s sake would shake Europe until it crumbled.

            As stated previously, William Manchester uses some unorthodox methods in his attempt to present his message. Some historians might say he uses too many details, many of them crude and gratuitous, and they overbear the real facts and points in the work. If anything, these details uphold the overall historical record. It is easy enough to write “The Papacy was corrupt,” but much more intriguing to read about Lucrezia Borgia and her affair with her father, the pope. (85) These gritty details add color to the story that textbooks lack. Other historians may have been interested in teaching history, Manchester teaches history through life experience.

            Manchester ends the text with some insight on doubt. Doubt, above all else, was the greatest enemy of the church. Knowledge and life experience facilitated it, which is why the Roman Catholic Church was so against the spread of the printing press, and why Martin Luther’s idea to print The Bible in German changed absolutely everything about religion in the Middle Ages. “Suppressing doubt is hard.” (296) Manchester included this in the final paragraph. The entire text is essentially the idea that because the church had so many people fooled into believing in indulgences and the afterlife and their sins they had an immense power over everyone in Europe. This can only last so long however, before the glass ceiling shatters and sends doubt spreading across Europe—in the form of Lutheranism, vernacular literature, or new of corruption in the papacy. Knowledge was the only way to light the world once the candles burned to the stub, and nothing would stop it.

            This book is paralleled perhaps only by William and Ariel Durant’s eleven volume series on the history of civilization. (To which Manchester frequently refers.) No other work is so comprehensive and engaging, and no other work makes such an impact with its message. The idea of living in a world in which the acquisition of knowledge must be done in secret (as with Leonardo da Vinci) sounds horrific in modern times. How could that have ever happened? As Manchester tells the story, it progressed as the wrong people took power. He brings up the modern world in his final paragraph—discussing the current Christian population. Do they still  believe in heaven and eternity? Not really, and certainly not in the same way the people of Europe did in the Middle Ages. “The specter of skepticism haunts shrines and altars.” (296) Knowledge has done its work in the modern era. As long as it is valued, it will remain very much alive, and feed doubt throughout its existence. Do not feel too comfortable, however. Manchester began A World Lit Only By Fire by discussing the Roman Empire. Knowledge was valued and doubt common. It was a golden age for Europe, much like the Renaissance that would follow it. However the fact that there were ten centuries of oppression in between should not be forgotten. Hopefully Manchester is correct when he states that “the serenity of medieval faith is lost forever.” (296) If that is serenity, knowledge is much more useful, and a much stronger force.

                                                                 Small Town Girl

Celeste Malone had always said she was a small town girl and that is what she would always be.  Now here she was 35 years old and wondering where life was going to take her next.  Her job as head librarian in Summerville, population 9,000, provided a good living and had been satisfying for the most part until now.  She had never married as she presumed she would, so there was nothing that dictated that she should stay.  Maybe it was a midlife crisis, but she had begun to feel restless.  Of course, she had traveled to plenty of big cities, but always returned to the comfort of small town life.  She had always sighed a sigh of relief as she neared the city limits on her drive home.   She enjoyed seeing familiar faces as she walked to work every morning.  It is all she had ever known in her day to day life.

Celeste woke up one morning and somehow things seemed different.  She was in a rut.  There had to be more to life that this!  Her best friend, Jo, was married and had 2 sons who kept her busy.  They still took in a movie once a month and occasionally had dinner together, but that was about it.  She didn’t have much of a social life.  Most of her free time was spent, reading, watching TV, or her latest passion, cooking.  She was addicted to the Food Network and couldn’t resist trying new recipes.  She would try them first just as the recipe instructed and then try them again putting her own twist on things.  

“It would be fun to cook for a living,” she said out loud one Saturday morning after fixing brunch.  She smiled at the fact that people who live alone talk to themselves all too often.    Saying it out loud, though, made it seem like a real possibility.  It was a thought that took wings in her heart.  She began reading about culinary schools around the country.  Having been frugal all these years, she had a nice saving put away for a rainy day.   She thought that rainy day would be a family and kids to put through college, but it seemed that was not to be.   Questions filled her mind.   Was she too old, too set in her ways, too unrealistic? 

After a month of studying and thinking about what avenue she might take to create a new life, she took the plunge at midnight while online.  She had been to the websites over and over, but this time she had filled out the application and clicked the send button.  She had been somewhat relieved to learn that it was not at all uncommon for people in their 30s to go to culinary school.  She had selected a school in Portland, Oregon. It was almost 2000 miles from home and Portland was a big city.   It wouldn’t be easy and it wouldn’t be cheap, but it would certainly turn her life in a new direction. 

The first day of classes she stepped on the elevator and someone she supposed would be one of her instructors smiled and said, “Hi, I’m Charlie.  I’m starting classes here today.   How about you?”

This was all nearly 10 years ago.  So much had happened!  Celeste and Charlie began a friendship that turned into more.  They married while still in school and upon graduation bought a bed and breakfast and started a family.  Did I mention that the Bed and Breakfast is in Seaside, Oregon, population 6,457?

Letter of Apology. Kind of.

 I wanted to write something quick and this is what occurred as soon as I opened Word...

Dear Mr. Bertram,

                 

I am writing on behalf of all of the juniors at Scott High when I say we did not realize that was your car we egged in the McDonald’s parking lot. (Although, let’s be honest, there was a lot more than Egg McMuffin on that paint job.) As teenagers, we make foolish decisions, most of them wildly uninformed. If we had known the 1997 Chevy Impala had belonged to you prior to the vandalistic acts, we would have gone with a different breakfast item; perhaps a sausage and egg biscuit or hotcakes—I hear maple syrup does a number on cars.

              

  I will not, however, apologize for the beautiful work done by my class on your shitty car. Yes, it was wrong to vandalize, but you have to sit back and admire the effort of talented stars like Jeff Smith and Lindsey Thomas. Without the superior artistic training they have received at your educational complex they could not have intimated so much frustration through a simple design as that of your balding head. The shading of your pedophile mustache really proved the versatility of safety glass and ketchup packets as new artistic mediums. I hope you have taken pictures and strongly encourage you to enter them into the county’s art contest—for they breathe creativity in every way.

              

  Most of all, I wish that you have gained some insight from this experience, too. We juniors at Scott High have gained new experience in personal expression, protest, and efficient use of resources (pooling out money for all eighty five of those egg sandwiches, for example). If it were me, I would be proud of such a vibrant, ambitious class—and do everything in my power to stay on their good side. Perhaps you should consider returning free wifi services to Scott High? This is just a suggestion.

Above all, I hope you understand that this is only the beginning.

Hoping you make smart decisions,

The Junior Class

Changing Face

THE WORLD IS ENDING,  Amy thought to the ground as she walked from school to her next destination. THE WORLD IS ENDING AND IT’S DOING IT ON PURPOSE. Maybe she was exaggerating a little bit, but she felt she was allowed to after the day she’d had.  She walked briskly, her hands in her jean pockets, staring at the concrete below her and never ahead.  If she looked ahead she might see people. She was so tired of people.

People suck. She thought once more. People are always doing things that suck. And they were. Not even five minutes after the morning bell had rung, Joey Lawrence had pointed out that her teeth were too large and that she should consider a possible surgery in which a rabid bear might claw all of them out, because that would make them a whole lot more attractive. In response she asked how that even made sense and how the use of the word “claw” was most likely grammatically incorrect, and maybe he would be better off with an English tutor. She was thoroughly surprised by how many people seemed to be on Joey’s side in the dispute,and newly self-conscious about her pearly-whites.

Other than that, she got a ninety-five on her spelling test (a rarity for her), a rejection from the school musical she had recently tried out for and about a thousand more comments to the same degree as Joey Lawrence’s. Fun day.

But it was supposed to be! In fact, Amy had been looking forward to that day immensely for some time! This was the day she would join the elite “Pennbrook Junior Orchestra” that rehearsed down the street from her school Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. She had been working up to this day since she began Middle School and joined band. She was a skilled viola and flute player, and she more-than-deserved a spot in the orchestra.

She was about two blocks away from the music academy now, and her mind was still elsewhere. Like her teeth. And her glasses. And every other little thing that wasn’t perfect about her. She was still staring at the ground, but after a bicycle whizzed by her much too close for comfort, she decided it was time to look up.

What she saw was a group of Junior High students lined up on the steps outside the academy. Each one sported a case of some kind (her viola case was in her hand) and everyone seemed to be pretty social. All of the kids stood in clumps talking to each-other, and it seemed to Amy like this was probably going to end up as another breeding ground for cliques. Approaching the crowd reluctantly, Amy found a place among the steps where she could stand alone and hopefully not participate in conversing with anyone. Gladly no one did, and after a few minutes, an older woman with a clipboard opened the doors of the academy and directed everyone up a couple flights of stairs to a rehearsal room.

Once everyone was in the room, the doors were shut behind them, and they were told to be quiet. “Hello, my name is Mrs. Wilburn, and I will be your assistant director here at the Pennbrook Junior Orchestra,” the woman quipped energetically, tapping her clipboard for emphasis with each syllable. “If you will please pay close attention I will be calling off names and seating arrangements now.”  She first named a section and then went on calling off names and seat numbers throughout the room.  Come on. Amy thought. I just want to go home.

Soon enough the word “viola” was called, and Amy waited patiently for her name to be called. Actually, she waited more impatiently, seeing as she had been waiting around and leaning on some boring wall for over twenty-five minutes now. There seemed to be an extremely large number of violas in the orchestra though, because the list never seemed to end, and it didn’t help that Amy’s last name was Zedler.  She was sure to be last!

As the minutes dwindled by Amy kept asking herself why she was here. Sure, she was good at playing an instrument and getting acceptable grades, but as far as being social went; she wanted nothing to do with it. She was excited for it months ago, but suddenly not now. This was just one more place she might have to put up with the constant jabber. Never would it be good jabber either. That she could guarantee.

“Maria Benetos, seat forty-seven…” Every-day, she put up with so much. “Paul Magar, seat forty-eight…” Why did she put up with it? “Alicia Nedham, seat forty-nine…” She wanted to be someone else, even if just for a day. “Francesca Pomoroy, seat fifty…” A silence washed over the room as no one identified themselves as this person. “Francesca Pomoroy?” Mrs. Wilburn called once more.

In a spur-of-the-moment decision, Amy frantically waved her hand up in the air calling, “That’s me! I’m sorry; I didn’t hear you the first time.” Mrs. Wilburn raised an eyebrow at her and sighed as if making a mental note of this strange girl.

“Seat fifty.” She repeated shaking her head.

“Thank you.” Amy replied politely, making her way quickly to her seat. Francesca, huh? She asked herself as she settled in her chair. Really? But it would be okay. She was absent. If you missed the first meeting you were left out of the orchestra, and even if she did get caught she wasn’t completely against the idea of leaving the group.

“I like your name,” the girl sitting next to her, Alicia, whispered. “It’s beautiful!”

“Thanks! Your name is pretty too!” Amy whispered back, flattered by a compliment that wasn’t for her. Seat number fifty-one, a girl named Ruth, complimented her on her name as well and pointed out how well her eyes went with her outfit. Maybe this isn’t so bad. Amy though smugly. Maybe I just needed a new name.

Soon, all of the viola names were called off, and Amy Zedler was marked absent. Francesca however was not. Francesca volunteered to play a solo she had been working on privately for a while for the entire orchestra (something Amy would never do, due to nerves and embarrassment). Francesca discussed nail polish colors with Ruth and Alicia (an activity that was deemed completely remedial and pointless by Amy). Francesca even talked to a boy, Paul Magar, about some football game between two colleges she apparently felt strongly about (“Football is a waste of time.” –Amy Zedler).

Francesca wasn’t shy. Francesca was funny, and beautiful, and unique. Francesca had confidence and a stride in her walk. Francesca didn’t care what other people thought about her. If only I didn’t either. Amy thought. If only.

But it didn’t have to be that way. Amy knew it better then than ever.  Orchestra felt for her that afternoon as it would the many other afternoons after it; rejuvenating. For once in her life, Amy had a place she could depend on to lift her spirits and keep her moving forward.  She hoped with any luck she would become Amy, not Francesca, and as time passed on she realized she had been Amy all along.

Next

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. She also decided not to walk through the door. She decided to sit down. She decided to stand. She decided all these things and a dozen others, all equally contradictory, and all retracted long before her body could turn any thought into action. To meet them boldly, or wait here to be discovered? Should she fiercely demand or coolly assume entitlement?

The book discarded, she looked around for another prop. The speed of the images increased then, even as they became more absurd. She was standing on the sofa; she was waving them off with a standing lamp, bulb still ablaze. Then she was quietly pouring something over ice at the cabinet, hopefully scotch. She emitted a puff of air that might have been a laugh as she looked up at the chandelier.

Finally her eyes fell on the tiniest thing in the room. There, on the shelf, forgotten for years, was a tiny figurine, a goat. It was dusty when she picked it up. A piece of lint had balled itself on the goat’s tiny beard. She wrapped her hand around it and felt real relief.

She heard footsteps on the tile. The goat was thrust into her pocket. She grasped the door knob, turned, and pulled.

“Hello,” she said, and began waiting, again, to see what she might do next.