The sun peeked through the vines hanging from the stone pergola. Standing there amongst the trees in the lush green park, I could almost sense the air of derring-do. Perfect! The scene had an authentic feel to it. Any minute now, the saucy Italian suitor would enter, fencing foil at the ready.
“And action!” I foisted the camera up onto my shoulder and cranked up the soundtrack on my boombox.
Our fake-mustachioed hero bounded in, replete in his red satin shirt and sash, and began his comic escapades with gusto. Eyebrow cocked, he thrusted and parried in time to the music in a display of silent machismo that left a nearby bush devoid of leaves.
“Cut! That’ll do it!” I started to pack up the gear as my then-fiancé took his sword and headed to the pickup to change out of his flashy shirt. “Be there in a minute.”
I made my way back to the truck, arms laden with equipment. There Sean stood, still wearing his costume.
“Uh, ready to go?” I asked.
Before I could ask why not, he pointed to the driver’s seat of the locked pickup truck. There, hanging coyly from the ignition, were the keys. There was nothing left to do but look for help. We picked up our gear and began lumbering across the rather spacious park, hoping to find some kind soul with a slim jim.
I should have known this day would turn out like this, I thought. This morning’s events set a precedent for disaster! I gingerly rubbed the sore spot on my head, remembering the scene we had taped earlier. Sean was supposed to sweep me up and carry me off over his shoulder as the camera rolled. He had the sweeping up part down—it was the carrying off that needed work. A few steps into his sprint he tripped, and we both went down like a sack of potatoes. He came out unscathed. I, on the other hand, managed to make contact with a metal building support pole…with my head. Thank the Lord for Tylenol! That was one heckuva headache.
The sound of Sean’s voice snapped me back to the present. We had stumbled upon the park’s maintenance shed, where he was giving an account of our predicament to a few burly guys in uniform. As he finished his explanation, he looked down at his shiny red get-up and added a hasty, “I’m not gay!” The burly men were not amused, but they did open the truck.
Figuring two calamities were enough for one day, we decided to stop filming and grab some dinner. I sat in the Wal-Mart McDonald’s and munched on my Big Mac while Sean did some shopping.
It was then I noticed something was wrong. Oh no, now what? Somewhere between a french fry and another bite of greasy cheeseburger goodness, my stomach had decided to do backflips. Abandoning my chow, I bolted to the nearest restroom, where my face quickly became acquainted with a standard-issue toilet bowl.
All I wanted to do was finish this project for my video production class. Why me? My thoughts lamented in my head as I watched my Spielberg ambitions swirl down the porcelain drain with what was left of my Big Mac.
A few hours, an emergency room, and a CT scan later, I was home again. A bruised brain, the doctors told me. Evidently that fall was of concussive proportions! Poor Sean! I thought as my mother tended to me. He feels so bad about this whole thing. Nothing says ‘I love you’ like dropping your girl on her head. What am I going to do with him?
I’m going to marry him.
I guess when I fell, I fell hard!
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