What the Hell Just HIT Me?

What the Hell Just Hit Me
So then…the music soars to a crescendo as the actors scurry about the Broadway stage — which my boyfriend and I can see perfectly from our fantastic theatre seats.

Just as we’re experiencing the spectacular re-enactment of the Fall of Saigon, something comes hurtling off the stage and hits me square in the chest.

I am stunned.

I feel around on the dark theatre floor but cannot locate the offending object. I look to my left, my right. No one looks aghast. They stare straight ahead.

Did I imagine that assault? I could swear something came right off that stage and hit me and…oh, wow, look at that building go up in flames! and a helicopter is taking off! and now the villagers are running amok!…this IS spectacular…

As we walk back to the hotel, we talk about how amazing the show is.

After several over-priced cocktails in the lobby bar, we go up to our hotel room and my boyfriend sexily swaggers over to me – although, frankly, it’s more like a stagger than a swagger –

and he whispers, “Comeer, you Hatamala,” which I first assumed was some new Asian nickname, inspired by our recent viewing of the revival of the “Miss Saigon” Musical, but soon realize was meant to be: “Come here, you Hot Tamale,” which is not only not in keeping with tonight’s Asian theme, but somewhat of a misnomer since I don’t personally possess any Latin blood.

My tipsy and yet still appealing boyfriend, continues his sweet-talking/slurring, wraps an arm around me, kisses me, then quite expertly unbuttons my blouse with his free hand. It appears the liquor has affected his diction more than his dexterity. It is going to be a good night.

Then he shrieks. And I don’t mean a manly shriek, like the kind that should come from a strong, strapping man of 6 feet like my boyfriend. I mean a high-pitched shrill of a shriek, reminiscent of a high society grande dame experiencing her first bikini wax.

“What?! What?!” I shout.

He points to my chest with considerable fear, and no small amount of revulsion. And there, on my chest, is a HUGE blue bruise with purple tentacles shooting out in all directions!

So now I shriek. I run to the mirror to get a better look at the mass and hue of this enormous skin condition, when it hits me – yes, hits me – just like I was hit not two hours ago in the theatre! I knew it! I knew something had hit me!

I turn to my boyfriend, who is anxiously seeking solace in the minibar’s mini bottles, and I exclaim: “Somesing in zee shoo hit my chezz, my chezz!” (Given my Irish heritage, I can only assume my current French accent is a temporary side effect of the over-priced lobby cocktails.) And yet, my boyfriend seems to understand exactly what I am saying, as slurring is the universal language of all inebriated.

So he calls the hotel operator and asks to be connected to the “Miss Saigon” theatre, which takes some time to communicate since the operator’s obviously not had the benefit of the afore-mentioned lobby cocktails, rendering her unfamiliar with our language.

Finally, we get through to the theatre stage manager and I say, in my most sober and nonchalant voice, “Didja happen to lose any props in tonight’s shoo?”

Pause.

“Why do you ask?” he says.

Aha! I knew it! That’s a clear admission of guilt!

“Calm down!” he says. (It’s at this point I realize I have spoken that accusation out loud.)

“My chezz has a HUGE bruise onnit! I wuzz hit by somesing from your stage!” I proclaim.

“Oh. Well, during the Saigon battle scene, we tie sandbags on the propellers of the helicopter to keep the blades from shooting out and…well, two of the sandbags are missing.”

“Missing!?”

“Yes, apparently, one flew off and hit a lady in the leg and I guess the other one hit you in the chezz…chest. We’ll gladly pay for the doctor visit. We’re really sorr—“

“What did the other lady say?”

“She said she’s fine, but the incident distracted her from enjoying the show. So we’re giving her free tickets to see it again.”

Pause.

I sober instantly.

I spout forth: “Four tickets. Backstage pass. Autographed program. And double-knot the sandbags this time!”

— Darcy Perdu

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(Yep, true story. Thank God only the sandbags came shooting off stage and not the propeller blades!! However, we had to get back home to LA, so I gave the free tix to my boyfriend’s NY relatives. So how about YOU? Ever had something odd happen – then a theatre, restaurant, hotel, company, etc. had to make it up to you? Any funny stories about shows, concerts, plays? Do tell in the Comments Section!)
What the Hell Just Hit Me