If my life were made into a movie, I’m not sure who the leading man might be. I would apply for the position myself, or find an agent who could help me sell myself to the company producing the film. It might be, however, that some young snot out of Hollywood who can sing, dance, and has a charming smile would be better for the main role. His companion for this joy ride through celluloid fantasy would have to be one of his own choosing. I would rather not tell him how to make a choice, since he might then not want to portray all the marvelous intricacies of my character, if she didn’t work well with him.

I would let them use my old beat-up Toyota for some of the sustained and exciting race scenes through the small and quiet hundred-year old village in which I live. Perhaps a quick, fender-banging romp through the 25 MPH school zone when mothers arrive in the early afternoon to haul their lovely little munchkins back home. Yes, that might be a good opening shot, before the real high drama begins.

The plot might revolve around me sitting beside my house in an Adirondack chair reading a book when I suddenly go to stretch a leg that has gone to sleep and inadvertently kick over a glass of lemonade that I had forgotten about. After that the sequence of events spirals seemingly out of control, with so many possibilities of what might happen next that the audience will experience a state of confusion and shock unequal to any blockbuster they have ever seen. I may go indoors and take a nap while the entire planet now spins crazily around the edge of a constant nuclear explosion that hurdles silent heat at everybody in the way below.

Then the heroine comes in, wakes me from my nap, and asks me, in one of the most memorable lines of the movie, “What’s for dinner?” Cameramen pan around my hairline and then pierce inside one of the TV holes above my nose to see what goes on inside. The hero is thinking of his favorite things to eat as they flash across the magic medium; hauntingly beautiful imagery of pies and hamburgers, salads and fish, burritos and pasta dishes.

Finally, after further character development and plot enhancement, the unknown source of evil that me, the unsuspecting super hero, must fight in rough and tumble combat, is identified. In the shadows of the late afternoon, I have neglected to close an unscreened window, allowing musca domestica to reveal his sinister mission. I turn toward him now. It’s just me and him, now facing off for the most jarring and thrilling scene of the entire feature. I swirl several times with disturbed agility, swatter now making grand strokes through air that others might only see as common. An empty strike here, a broken dish now crashes to the floor, adding such a cacophony of crescendoing sound. All of the audience is now aghast, as I make another swipe and stab, wounding him in only the slightest, and watching him go back out through the window.

Lights come on as credits roll. Everybody arises from their seats with such a hushed, speechless silence, as they remain deep in spell-bound awe over the underlying and brilliantly implied meaning of this brashly daring drama. Surely the sequel for next year is already being written!

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