Tommy and his amazing Technicolor nightmare

Have you ever had a nightmare so terrifyingly real you had to will yourself to wake up and, when you did, discovered you were drenched with sweat and your heart was pounding so fast you were probably moments from a heart attack?

I had one last night.

My wife and I were in Wilton, Connecticut, in the kitchen of the house where we raised our sons. We were in our old kitchen – the one with the oak cabinets and Formica countertops before the house was remodeled in 1996 –  but we were the age we are now.

We were about to leave for the evening. I was under the impression we were going to meet friends for dinner.

She said she wanted to drive – odd because I almost always drive. I handed her the keys and we got into our teal Volvo 740 DL station wagon. It was the official car of Wilton during the early- and mid-1990s, the car everyone who had kids drove back before SUVs. 

She headed the car south, toward the town center.  I assumed we were going to Portofino, my favorite Wilton restaurant. My mouth was watering at the thought of its signature rigatoni with sausage, marinara, peas and a touch of cream. But when we got to the second stoplight on Danbury Road, instead of continuing south toward the town center, she took a right onto School Road. We wound our way up a steep hill and turned left into the parking lot at Cider Mill School.

“What are we doing here?” I asked, as she brought the car to a stop.

“You’ll see,” she said.

We got out and walked toward the front door but when we got there it was gone. It had been replaced by the box office of our local Regal Cinema here in Florida.

“Hi Kate,” she said to her friend who was seated behind the window. “I have two tickets reserved.”

At that moment I realized I had been tricked into attending a performance of the Wilton Children’s Theater. It’s a volunteer organization run by artistically inclined parents that twice a year stages elaborate musicals in which elementary and middle school kids play all the roles. Our sons were in the chorus of shows like "Lil Abner" and "Cinderella." The high point of their thespian careers occurred during "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" when the oldest landed a solo as one of the brothers who sang a song lamenting starvation due to a lingering drought and the younger played a butler who got to sing four lines while relating his amazing dream to Joseph as both languished in an Egyptian prison cell. 

There I was standing in front of the vine.

I picked some grapes and I crushed them for wine.

I gave them to Pharaoh who drank from my cup.

I tried to interpret but had to give up.

Whatever show they were appearing in, my wife made sure we attended all four performances held over the course of the weekend – Friday night, Saturday matinee, Saturday night and the Sunday matinee. The boys, as extras, were on stage for only a few minutes. I then had to spend what seemed like hours watching other peoples’ stupid children in whom I had no interest whatsoever. If given the choice between sitting through four performances of Cinderella or having a colonoscopy, I'd have no trouble deciding.

“I’d rather be water boarded,” I pleaded. “Anything but this.”

Kate, who is our age, was in her late thirties or early forties in the dream. She started thumbing through a wooden box marked “Kraft Cheese” containing white ticket envelopes. It was identical to the one in which my father kept booklets of customer charge accounts in his general store.

“Our tickets are for the back row,” my wife said. “You can slip out after the boys appear. They're on near the beginning.”

“But they're not in this! They're grown! They live in Washington! One's got a kid of his own for Chrissakes!"

“Here you go”, Kate said with a smile, handing my wife the ticket envelope. It was clear my wife had discussed with Kate her plan to trick me into attending. “I upgraded you. You’re in first class, on the front row. Seats 1A and B on the left side.”

“What’s the show?” I asked.

“The Sound of Music,” my wife replied.

“But why?” I pleaded. “Why are we doing this?”

She took my hand and pulled me into the lobby where people were milling about – familiar faces who, like Kate, were in their thirties or early forties –  then into the theater itself. She handed the tickets to an usher, who walked us down the aisle, passing fellow Wilton residents Christopher Walken and Patty Hearst who were sitting in the same row, to our seats.

“You’re not going to be able to get up and leave since we’re down here," she announced. "It’d be rude. Everyone’ll see you.”

“Please!” I begged, as the lights dimmed. “I can’t sit through this. There’s no reason. Our kids aren't in this. We don’t know anyone who has kids. We don’t even live in this town anymore!”

The piano player started playing the overture, “The Hills are Alive.” The curtain began to rise.

At that point, mercifully, my eyes flew open.

I laid awake for a half hour or so trying to interpret but I finally gave up.