the 941

The scene was the Night of 1,000 Stars at Michael’s on East. I was weaving between tables on my way to the bathroom, licking at a blue-razz-and-Bacardi snow cone, getting a nice buzz going and feeling almost impervious to awkwardness of any kind.

Then a tall, attractive woman pointed to my snow cone and said, “Nice.” I stopped and said thanks, told her where I’d gotten it, what flavors were inside, started explaining way too much about the snow cone. She noticed from my lanyard that I was with Creative Loafing, and she introduced me to the two men standing beside her.

“Right,” I said to them. “You’re the guys who made They Turned our Desert into Glass.“

“Actually,” said the one with pointy sideburns, “it’s They Turned our Desert into Fire. But I guess, you know, fire on sand, that can make glass.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I guess I was thinking about, like, the chemistry of it.”

It was then that a cold and heavy awkwardness settled into my heart. They expected me to know something about their movie, to ask them some sort of journalistic questions. I only knew that it was about Darfur. I hardly knew the name. So, Darfur, I could say, whew! That would be so stupid.

I was frozen. Alcohol, thinking it knew what to do, took over.

“Have you guys tried the snow cones?” I heard myself say. “They’ve got, um, there’s rum in ‘em.” Silence. “Well I was just on my way to the bathroom. I’ll see you around!”

And that I have, everywhere I’ve gone this weekend. Their names turned out to be Mark Brecke and Jason Mitchell. The woman, the film’s third producer, was Stacey Ransom. They eye me strangely when I pass, but I just smile at them, as though I’d already forgotten.

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