Many years ago, I was on a trip to Charleston, South Carolina, with three friends. We were there for Fourth of July weekend. There's a pier on the battery that has porch swings and ceiling fans...it's one of my favorite places there, and we decided to run down there from our hotel around 11 o'clock one night.
As we were about to cross the street to the park, a young man came out on the balcony of the hotel at the corner, and started singing "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina". About halfway through, he lost the lyrics, so what's a theatre kid supposed to do? Help a brotha out.
I turned toward the hotel and delivered the next line, much to the embarrassment of my friends. So yes, I was standing in the streets of Charleston, singing show tunes with a drunk guy who was five floors above me in a very expensive hotel suite.
Just as we finished the song, his friends retrieved him from the balcony. We waved to each other, and I continued to the park with my friends.
It was just one of those moments. For me it was a tiny little scrap of magic, but it never bore fruit, of course. I always wondered who he was. I'm pretty sure he was somewhat younger than me; I was thirty, and I had the impression that he was in his twenties.
You can't orchestrate those moments. They either happen organically, or they don't. Here I am, still hoping for some spark. Magic is in such short supply these days, isn't it?