1987: We were hurrying through an Irish downpour rain. Three children in the car crying, “The movie starts in five minutes…” Tears and desperation flowed. Down my face.
A parking place, had to find a parking place. Dammit. There’s one, but it’s a tight one, and I’ll have to parallel park with traffic behind me. “Quiet, kids, let me get parked.” Lord, help me! I hate parallel parking…
Zip, Zang, and I was in the spot. Perfect. The kids leapt out the passenger side onto the concrete. Me? I had to crawl out into traffic, where a river rampaged down the gutter, and cars sprayed me.
On a pelting run, we made it to the ticket window, and paid the snotty teenager who said, “Movie’s already started, ya’ know…” Pushing the kids ahead of me, I whispered all sorts of mild profanity in response to the teenager.
We found our friends and settled into watching “The American Tail”. A poor Eastern European family of mice were emigrating to America. They got separated, with poor #@^& boy, Fievel, trying to find his way back to the family. Fievel was befriended by unlikely carnivores, chased by likely carnivores.
The key song, “Somewhere Out There” is sung as a duet, with Fivel in one part of the city and his saccharine sweet sister in the other. My mood softened a little, but not enough.
I watched the movie with a jaundiced eye. A cynical heart. Still cold and wet from my traffic shower bath, I saw that mouse, @*#% Fievel, escape certain death time and time again.
Inevitable reunion ended the movie with music swelling and my kids laughing happily. All I could think was, “Why didn’t they kill that #@$ mouse?”
