Forget about it
(a short story)
By Bob Boldt
Midway through a late Sunday morning shower, my singularly resonant baritone rendition of “Toreador” from Bizet’s Carmen was interrupted by a loud trumpet blast from somewhere inside the house. Stunned, I instinctively punched off the hot stream and reached for a towel. My brain frantically raced through a half dozen or more desperate explanations to frame the outrageous stimulus within some rational or not so rational context. Car horn? Smoke alarm? TV? Radio? Sweepstakes winner fanfare? Musical burglar? Satchmo’s ghost?
(a short story)
By Bob Boldt
Midway through a late Sunday morning shower, my singularly resonant baritone rendition of “Toreador” from Bizet’s Carmen was interrupted by a loud trumpet blast from somewhere inside the house. Stunned, I instinctively punched off the hot stream and reached for a towel. My brain frantically raced through a half dozen or more desperate explanations to frame the outrageous stimulus within some rational or not so rational context. Car horn? Smoke alarm? TV? Radio? Sweepstakes winner fanfare? Musical burglar? Satchmo’s ghost?