Page 11 of Goalie Secrets
“It is a nice neighborhood. There’s a college campus nearby, so lots of food choices within walking distance,” I say, thinking about the coffee shop I visited this weekend.
“Find some hangouts for when I visit you.”
With the challenges of EDS, Ashley couldn’t accompany me on the road trip. She is, however, eager to fly over and explore Columbus once I’m settled.
“You know what? Iwillgo for a walk.”
“There you go. Fresh air is exactly what you need. Though maybe I should remind you not to flash your tits in that college town. I know how you get around frat boys.”
She’ll never let me live down that New Orleans bender. Unfortunately, that’s the way with questionable life choices. They’re only questionable in hindsight.
Exiting the two-story duplex, I make my way down Cassidy Ave toward Main Street. I’m in a neighborhood of midsized residencies on the west side of a college campus, away from student housing. The place I’m renting belongs to a professor who is on research sabbatical for a year.
Walking down my new block, I consider the houses around me: neatly kept gardens and white porches of detached homes, a few dignified looking brownstones, and a sprinkling of duplexes. It’s a pleasant suburban sprawl close to bustling city blocks.
Once I turn the corner to a busy boulevard, it’s like a different neighborhood altogether. Less residential and more college town. There’s the usual sprinkling of pizza places and cafés. Loud dance music drifts from a basement entrance. A group of women enter a nice-looking restaurant, which I consider for a second until I see how crowded it is.
I’m about to cross the street to go back home when an art deco sign grabs my attention. It sits over a midcentury building with glass blocks that reflect the bright orange and neon blue of the establishment’s name.
Drexel Theater.
The architectural style features sleek, geometric lines and polished surfaces surrounding a marquee sign that announcesMusical Monday: My Fair Lady.
My heartbeat ticks up. I haven’t seen a musical on the big screen in ages! The feeling of a treat about to unfold makes my legs churn faster. I freakinglovemusicals.
The show started at eight. My watch confirms that I’ve still gotmore than half the film to watch. After purchasing my ticket, I enter the quiet lobby.
There are wrought iron railings and marble floors, two pillars on each side of a large door, and red velvet curtains. Everything is a little worn down. The tiles are chipped, the drapes frayed and faded. Still, I see a hint of the grandeur of the building when it was built in the fifties.
Grabbing popcorn and sprite from the concession stand, I enter to the opening notes of “I Could Have Danced All Night.”
I take a moment to notice the proscenium arch that frames the movie screen. It’s a small theater of about two dozen rows at most, half filled. I scoot past two women at the aisle of the last row, apologizing that I bothered even a sliver of this iconic scene.
Audrey Hepburn is radiant against the room’s dark, wood panels. She climbs up the stairs with light feet, moving to the rhythm of the catchy melody. After being tucked in bed, she continues to sing. Unrestrained, expectant joy is splendidly reflected in her smile. The song encapsulates the excitement of a woman who knows her life is about to change.
The stress of the day leaks out of my body with every frame. Someone once said that music is love waiting for words. Musicals are where music and words andactionstell a complete story. There’s nothing like it. I let the images and music wash over me.
My mind flashes back to my childhood, in the basement of our house in one of Toronto’s many crowded suburbs. Alone, because my father is working and my mother is out for the night. Some kids play video games or practice instruments or hang out with friends when they aren’t at school. My pastime of choice was watching old movies, musicals most of all. One winter, I watchedGreaseevery night for a week. That musical didn’t do my feminist sensibilities any favors, but I fucking loved the spectacle of it.
My random reflections scatter when the lights blink on.
Since I’m tucked at the edge of a row, I stay seated as the crowd shuffles past. When the last of the couples walk by, I stand. The movement makes the man behind the couple stop abruptly. He pulls his hoodie down and stares at me.
Two feet away is the last person I thought would watch a musical revival at a small theater on a Monday night.
Jeremy Lopez.
I’m not surprised to see the doctor, I’m shocked.
Not once, in all the years I’ve watched Musical Mondays at Drexel Theater, had I seen anyone from my athlete life. Not that people who love hockey or work with athletes can’t love musicals, or vice versa.
More like this crowd is a little fanatical about the routine, so the usual couples or groups of friends have been coming for years. I’m used to seeing the same people. And it’s more of a neighborhood hang out than a public event because the owners are old school cheap, so the event is never advertised.
“See you next time, Jeremy,” Rose says while her husband tucks her hand in his elbow.
“Bye, Rose. See you later, Ken.”
“Don’t take two months to come back,” she reprimands me.