Dixie, P

THE DREAM OF DIXIE’S DINER

(A fantasy of transformation inspired by a true experience

of Civil Rights leader Bayard Rustin))

Once upon a time, in a place out of time, or beyond time, or anyway not in any recognizable time, there was a place called “Dixie’s Diner”. Now, although Dixie’s Diner existed very much in the world of the imagination, that cluttered collage of disembodied ideas, fantasies, odd feelings and eccentric images, it was unlike anything you’ve read about in a fairy tale. That’s because Dixie’s Diner was drab, ordinary, uninteresting, and depressing. No one would really want to go there, or to imagine it, really, just for fun.

But in dreams, we go to places we would never think of visiting by conscious choice, and in dreams everything can and does change magically and dramatically, sometimes in an instant. And you are now entering the Dream of Dixie’s Diner. Whose dream? Perhaps that’s for you to say.

It started, as I’ve indicated, as a very dull sort of dream. Not pleasant, not meaningful. Not even carrying with it the eerie excitement and fright of a nightmare. Mainly, it had the personality of its owner, and Dixie Dugan was a woman dedicated to the proposition that the best thing that could happen to her was nothing.

She wasn’t a bad-looking woman, though she did not do anything to enhance her attractiveness. Entering her early thirties, she had been appealing enough to attract not merely one, but two husbands. However, the first marriage expired from ennui, the second died a grisly and painful death brought on by the spouse’s battering, betrayal, and abandonment. Dixie had never been a particularly forceful or joyous person, but after this latest experience, she retreated firmly from the world of relationship and human interaction.

She concentrated, instead, on keeping her Diner as a haven of sameness and predictability. Left her by a more energetic and venturesome set of parents, lost in a car crash, it was her home, her work, her refuge. Living in a tiny room upstairs, and ordering food to be delivered, she was able to survive without ever venturing into the disordered, threateningly unpredictable and uncontrollable outside world.

Nor would she allow that world to intrude upon her treasured space. Customers of odd or unfamiliar character were not welcomed at Dixie’s Diner. Those of strange races, nationalities, religions, appearance, behavior - in short, anyone Dixie did not feel comfortable with, were discouraged from entering, refused service, in some way turned away, unfed. And the list of those who did not meet her requirements was long, even exhaustive.

Living in an ephemeral world where Civil Rights Laws could not interfere with her quiet dictatorship, Dixie, with satisfaction and relief, if not enthusiasm, simply avoided contact with anyone that she felt might disturb her hard-earned equilibrium.

On the occasion of our story’s beginning, Dixie was just closing the diner for the night. Her regular customers had arrived and departed at their usual times. Carefully, Dixie went from window to window checking the locks, then fastened the multiple locks on both doors. With a last look at her now-secured territory, she headed up the stairs.

In her little room, deliberately kept simple and utilitarian, she sat for a moment on the bed, trying to compose herself for sleep. It was at this time of day, alone and without work to occupy her, that she found it hardest not to become depressed by the emotional poverty of her life. She got up, as usual, and turned on the radio, set to her usual station. Soft, undistinctive “elevator” music soothed her as she started getting ready for bed. She tried, as always, to hum with it as she went into the bathroom to undress and brush her teeth. But, since her pitch was uncertain and her voice likewise, she, as always, abandoned the humming pretty quickly.

Coming out of the bathroom in an incongruously pretty and feminine nightgown, she was caught again by the strains of the music and began to move to it in a few awkward dance steps vaguely recalled from her past life. Then, feeling self—conscious and uncomfortable, she subsided, got into bed and turned out the light. She listened to the music until, finally, she became drowsy enough to drop off to sleep.

In the morning, her brisk, businesslike self, she greeted her breakfast regulars: Two chatty little old ladies and three blue-collar workers. The former pecked at some toast and drank coffee, the latter wolfed down hearty fare such as bacon, eggs, potatoes as well. A friendly young high-school dropout named Sue waited on tables, while a gruff veteran called Kurt was the fry cook.

The days followed one another in swift and repetitive succession. At lunch, the same chatty old ladies were supplemented by two conservative-looking business people - a man and a woman, who ate at their separate tables and never looked at one another. Afternoons found the perennial ladies sipping coffee and indulging in cake, along with a teen-aged couple completely involved in each other, but managing to put away several sodas or malts while exchanging their amorous communications.

The blue-collar workers, again hungry despite several large sandwiches consumed from their lunch boxes, would be back again for an early dinner immediately after their shift. Then, as they headed for Curly’s Tavern down the way for their evening relaxation, a quiet family of mother, father and two children would arrive for their restaurant dinner of the week. Though it seems certain that this was a once-a-week event, and that there must have been a different family each night, they looked exactly alike that Dixie was never quite sure. It mattered little - they ordered the same things and tipped the same tip, whoever they might be.

So it went — until the afternoon when, washing the window as the place was temporarily empty, Dixie saw a stranger peering through it at her. Instinctively, she raised her apron in a shooing motion, saying, “Go away, go away!” although it was doubtful if they could hear her.

They disappeared, but Dixie did not continue her window washing. “No need to have it so clean that just anybody can look in,” she mumbled, half to herself and half to her staff. She sat and began to read her newspaper. The latter provided the only regular excitement in Dixie’s life. It was exactly the level of stimulation she wanted. TV or movies were too realistic, too absorbing, too frightening. But, reading about all the terrible things going on outside was just scary enough to be titillating, but contained enough by the printed word to be quite tolerable. The only real effect of the newspaper was to confirm Dixie in her determination to keep that messy, dangerous outside world in its place - away from her Diner.

Though there had been strangers attempting to eat at Dixie’s before, this was the first time in ages that any had appeared there. The word had apparently gotten around that they were not welcome. Today, however, seemed to be Dixie’s bad day - she looked up and saw, with horror, two punk rockers open the door partway and peek through it. She rose, putting aside the newspaper, and started toward the door to eject them, but they laughed and ran away before she could reach them.

Now, a seeming nightmare began. When Dixie started to sit back down, she felt transfixed on the spot. And faces began to appear and disappear, at the windows, the doors. Voices called to her from invisible beings, giving orders first for foods from her usual menu, but then, appallingly, for exotic things such as sweetbreads and squid and tamales and borscht. Caught up for a moment in the horror of it, she at first could not respond. Then, propelled by the urgency of her own fear, she shouted, “No! No!” And she pointed like a charging general at the signs which were the only adornment of the restaurant - “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone”, “Proper attire required at all times”, “No special orders.” Desperately, she read each of them aloud in a firm voice. Then she said, trembling but passionate, “YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE!” Instantly, the voices ceased, and all was eerily quiet.

She turned shakily to Kurt and Sue, to find them both looking stunned, mouths agape. “Did you hear that?” she gasped. Kurt shut his mouth and began scrubbing his grill, while Sue ran to the door and peeked out.

“I didn’t hear nothin”’ Kurt stubbornly insisted. “And you didn’t hear nothin’ either. Don’t go gettin’ funny on us, now, Dix.”

“Wow! Cool!” said Sue, as she gave up looking outside and returned to her stool by the counter. “That was really weird! Think it’ll happen again, Dixie?”

“I think,” Dixie said carefully, “that you’d better get to your salts and peppers, so we’ll be ready for dinner.”

“The salts and peppers are full, like always, and our dinner people won’t be here for hours,” grumbled Sue, but slowly went to check them anyway.

Before she could reach even a single table, the door opened. The three turned nervously to look, but it was only the regular ladies, ready for their afternoon coffee and dessert. Sue waited on them attentively, the place relaxing into its usual stupor.

It was only a few minutes later that another stranger brought the Diner to attention, by not merely opening the door, but walking right in. This one was a conservatively—dressed gentleman, but he had a round, flat, black cap upon his head. Dixie eyed him uneasily, then came to the point. “What’s that you’re wearing on your head?” she asked bluntly.

“That,” said the man, “is a yamulke. I am a conservative Jew, and it is our custom to wear one.”

“Dixie hesitated, torn between the comforting word “conservative” and the image of the odd looking thing on his head. As she debated with herself, Kurt took the situation in had. “Sorry, buddy,” he said firmly, “We’re closed. We ain’t serving dinner for at least another hour. These ladies,” he went on with a nod to the regulars, “are the owner’s aunts.”

“Yes, of course,” said the man sadly and meaningfully. “I see. I should have known. Well, then - Shalom.” And he walked out the door.

“Ya gotta be firm with these people, Dix!” said Kurt. You could see right away he don’t fit in. No point in shilly-shallying about it.”

“I know,” agreed Dixie. “But he seemed like such a nice, quiet man, decently dressed and all.”

“Except for the hat, Dix. You can’t ignore the hat.”

“Yeah. You’re right. I must be a little tired out today, can’t think straight. That thing with the voices really got to me too. Made me really nervous.”

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about!” said Sue. “What was the guy gonna do but eat, pay and leave? We could use a few more customers - more money in the till for you, more tips for me. This place is so slow and sleepy it’s like being underwater. Same few faces every day.”

“Well,” said Dixie strongly. “That’s just the way I like it. Sure, I’d like to make a little more money,” she admitted. “But you can’t be too careful today about who you let in your place. You can’t tell what some of those weirdos wandering around might do. It’s safer to stick with the folks we know.”

But this was apparently not Dixie’s day. No sooner were those words out of her mouth, but a woman dressed in a decidedly unconservative way walked into the Diner and sat down at a table. When she asked for a menu in an accent which was like none any of them had ever heard, Sue started to happily get one for her.

But Dixie, exchanging one glance with Kurt, didn’t hesitate this time. Moving quickly to the woman, she said, “I’m sorry, you’ll have to go somewhere else. We only serve local people here, and you are clearly not from this area.”

The woman looked slightly bewildered. “I was born three blocks from this place,” she said in her peculiar way of speaking. “My family has lived here for many years.”

“Never mind that,” said Dixie irritably. “She pointed to the signs on the wall. “Out you go!” And she briskly propelled the woman out the door.

Alas, there was still no peace for Dixie - this time the punk rocker who had peeked in earlier was heard outside the door. “Go ahead,” he whispered, “I dare you!” And two long-haired hippie types came sailing through the door. Sue regarded them with delight, and one of them winked at her. Dixie, feeling very worn, looked imploringly at Kurt.

He responded immediately. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked. “You can’t eat here.” and came after them. For a few minutes they scattered and had Kurt chasing them around tables as they laughingly avoided him. Then, making absurd faces as they went, they backed out the door and were gone.

As they left, Dixie broke into tears. “I can’t take it,” she sobbed. “Why won’t they leave me alone?”

“Hey, come on, you’re getting yourself all upset over nothing!” said Sue. “It’s not like somebody robbed you or beat you up or anything.”

“Yeah?” said Kurt. “Well, maybe that’s because we don’t give nobody the chance. You’re too young to know just how bad things can get, kid.”

“Well,” said Sue, “I almost wish it would get bad. It might be better than being bored, bored, bored.” And she flounced across the room to refill the ladies’ coffee. The latter, who had been watching all the goings on with fascination, began giving her their respective opinions about everything, in detail.

Dixie rose, and slowly headed back into the kitchen. “Come on, Kurt,’ she said. “Let’s see about what we’re going to make for dinner tonight.

“You know what we’re going to make tonight, Dix. Same as we make every night,” he groused.

“Don’t you give me a hard time, too, Kurt,” she replied, as they went out together. “I’m too beat to argue, right now.”

After they left, the gossipy ladies went on muttering to each other in whispers. Then, just as Sue had detached herself from them, gotten herself a soda and sat down at the counter, the front door slowly opened, and the whispering suddenly stopped. Absolute silence fell.

He was young, well—dressed, - and of the race known variously as “Black”, “Colored,” “African—American” or “Negro”, depending on which era you happened to live in. He had been standing with quiet dignity at the door. Now he moved easily to a table, and sat down. The hush in the restaurant continued, as he looked toward Sue and waited patiently to be served.

Sue felt mesmerized, but with a glance at the kitchen reminded herself that she really had no choice in the situation. But she really couldn’t bring herself to confront the man directly. So she suddenly became very busy, finding chores to do all around the room to occupy herself, but avoiding that one corner where the stranger sat. It was a help to her in this that the lovebirds came in just then, and she was able to spend some time bringing them their sodas.

But time went by, and still the man sat there, not moving, but gradually comprehending what was going on.

Finally, a gasp from the ladies alerted Sue, and she turned to find that the man had gotten up and walked over so as to look her directly in the eye. “I would like to have a hamburger,” he said in deep, gentle tones and impeccable diction.

“I’m sorry,” said Sue, sadly and sincerely. “But we can’t serve.. .er, er. . .you, er.. .coloured people here.”

“Who’s responsible for this?” he asked. Sue replied with a gesture toward Dixie, who had just come back in from the kitchen, and was standing toward the rear of the restaurant, by the coffee urn.

He walked directly to Dixie. “I would like to know why it is impossible for me to be served here,” he said.

Somehow, her earlier assurance had left her. As he gazed at her, she found herself stuttering. “Well...well, er... It’s ..er.. .it’s because we don’t do that around her. They don’t serve colored people in any of the restaurants.”

His look didn’t falter. “Why?” he insisted.

She found herself feeling more and more embarrassed as she tried to remember the answers to his question. “It’s because they’re dirty,” she began, looking uneasily at his immaculate appearance, “and they won’t work, and they’re loud, and commit crimes, and because if I served them everybody would walk out, and then what would happen to my business.”

He maintained a peaceful demeanor through this statement, then asked quietly, “What is your name, ma’am?

Off guard and confused, she responded. “Dixie Dugan.”

He extended his hand and, helplessly, she found herself somehow taking it. “I am Benjamin Rowles, and I am here for a speaking engagement at the local college. It just so happens that my subject involves some of the misconceptions about members of my race that you have just mentioned. Why don’t we just sit down and go over some of my data together in the interest of clarification?” And, before she knew it, Dixie found herself sitting and poring over statistics and reports that she could barely understand. But Mr. Rowles explained everything to her carefully, and before long, she found that all her arguments had been quietly dismissed and disproven.

All, that is, but one. The economic question about her business. “Have you ever served Negroes?” asked Mr. Rowles.

“No,” she replied warily.

“Then, why do you believe that doing so would offend your customers? Let’s try a little experiment” her proposed. “You set a hamburger in front of me, and I will sit conspicuously in the front of the restaurant for ten minutes, during which time I will not eat my hamburger, and we will count the number of people who leave on my account or who, being about to enter, turn away. If we see one such person, I will leave myself. Or, if we do not, I will be served.”

“Why should I do this?” she said hesitantly, looking automatically toward the grill area, but finding Kurt still absent.

“Why? Perhaps in the interest of democracy, of truth, of putting bugaboos to rest for your own peace of mind. Or, maybe the question should be, why not? If I am wrong, I will go quietly and immediately. If I am not, you have gained a customer.”

It was as though something inside her could not resist his gentle, reasonable argument, in fact something inside her echoed his statement, “Why not?” Not quite knowing why, she agreed to his terms. Setting the hamburger before him, to the utter astonishment of Sue and the ladies, she stood in a rear corner unobtrusively and settled in to wait. The ladies started to babble, then ran out of steam and sat in silence. Breathlessly awaiting new developments, they were, at any rate, obviously not about to go anywhere. The teen lovers remained oblivious to everything, and for several minutes no one moved.

Then, with a bang, the door opened and the three blue collar regulars came charging in. They stopped suddenly, and looked accusingly at Dixie. Then one of them shouted, “Dixie Dugan, whatever has gotten into you? Here it is our regular time, and no sign of Kurt ready to get some chow on the grill! You’d just better get that man and get him moving, or you’ll have real trouble on your hands! We’re hungry, woman!”

And with this last remark, they all sat down at their usual table, and banged on it. “At least sling us some coffee, Sue girl, and stop gawking.!” And Sue hurriedly went to serve them, while Dixie went into the kitchen and could be heard calling for Kurt.

And still Mr. Rowles sat quietly, the hamburger getting cold in front of him.

Then, like a cold breeze, the presence of Kurt could be felt, as he loomed in the doorway from the kitchen and sighted the man with the hamburger before him. But as he started forward instinctively, Dixie took his arm and pulled him into the kitchen after her.

“Let it be,” she found herself saying.

“Are you crazy?” he shouted. “We can’t serve one of them!”

“Why? Why, Kurt? What if we’ve been wrong? What if all the things we’ve imagined would happen just aren’t real? He seems — I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem to make sense to be afraid of him.

“Well, does it make sense to kiss your business goodbye because he seems like a nice man?

“If anybody objects to his being here, he’s agreed to leave. Kurt, I want to know!” Dixie looked at him earnestly.

“Well, I do know, and I’m not going to let you act like a nut! I”m throwing that guy out right now!” He made a move toward the door.

Something snapped in Dixie. “Who is the owner of this place?” she said sharply, blocking Kurt’s way. “I don’t like your talking to me like that. That man out there treats me with more respect than you do!”

Just then, Sue hurried into the kitchen. “If you’re so worried about the customers, you’d better get to it and feed those three regulars. They’re getting hungrier and madder by the minute. Here’s the order, Kurt.” The two women stared the big man down, and, with a growl, he turned to his cooking, mumbling something about, “Let it go, for now, but you’ll see...”

As the women turned toward the dining room, Dixie turned back for a minute, saying, “First let’s have a hamburger with everything, Kurt. On the double.” Again their eyes locked, and again Kurt grumpily looked away, throwing the burger on the grill.

“Good going, Dixie!” said Sue as they re-entered the dining room together.

“Maybe,” Dixie replied. She was feeling rather mixed up. It felt good to put Kurt in his place. There was also a sense of anticipation, of new life, in the doing of something she’d been afraid to do for so long. This new customer was undoubtedly the most interesting person she’d served in ages.

On the other hand, she had to keep putting down the familiar fear, the foreboding of some imminent, unnamed disaster. Risk was something Dixie had not taken since her ill-fated second marriage. The results of the latter were not encouraging. And yet - at least she didn’t feel numb, and bored and hopeless. Perhaps... She reserved judgment for now.

When the hamburger was ready, Dixie herself took it and walked over to Mr. Rowles’ table. Silently, she removed the cold one and placed its just-cooked replacement before him. Then she looked at him steadily and asked, “What would you like to drink, Sir?”

He smiled at her, a smile of such warmth and happiness that it seemed to radiate throughout the room, only stopping at the kitchen door, beyond which Kurt still lurked gloomily. The ladies and the blue collar group both felt it, without knowing exactly what it was. The only reason the lovebirds didn’t notice was because they had felt that way all along. It seemed as though the very light in the place got lighter, the dreariness significantly dispelled, and an atmosphere of harmony and peace stole through the Diner.

“I’d like a cup of coffee, thank you,” said Mr. Rowles.

“Right away, Sir.” And Dixie herself felt that smile singing through her as she hurried away, struggling with the layers of anxiety and denial.

As though on cue, a young woman with a small child appeared at the door. Sue immediately showed her to a table and gave her a menu. Going to get her a glass of water, she whispered to Dixie, “She looks normal, doesn’t she. Why not?”

And Dixie, fresh from her first taste of freedom, could not think of a single objection. She just nodded helplessly. All seemed to be all right. She went over to her new customer and started talking to her, admiring the child. Then, she inquired, “Do you and your husband live around here?”

“Oh, I’m not married,” said the woman.

Dixie blanched, then, looking again at the child’s happy face, caught herself. “Well, do you and Jenny live nearby?” she said. The conversation went on.

When Sue looked at her curiously upon her return to the back of the room, Dixie just sighed. “The little girl is adorable,” she said defensively. “She’s not to blame for anything, and I just couldn’t do anything to hurt her.” Sue just smiled and went about her work.

Now, it seemed as though, magically, the small opening in Dixie’s Diner had mushroomed. Within minutes, the hippies returned. Said Sue pleadingly, “They just like to dress funny, Dixie. They’re good kids. I know them from school.” And Dixie shrugged and gave way.

When the Jewish man and the foreign - sounding woman returned, together with another darkly attractive lady, it was Dixie herself who showed them to a table. By this time, the place was so busy that Kurt was too occupied with his cooking to say anything about the way things were going. In fact, Dixie’s new worry, expressed to Sue, was, “How in the world are we going to take care of all these people?”

Immediately, a slim, pleasant-looking young man entered, seemingly of Hispanic or American Indian background, or both. He brought with him an aura of joyousness that raised the atmosphere in the Diner another notch. “Buenos dias!” he said. “I am Juan Hidalgo. I can cook, wait tables, work the register, wash dishes... Tell me what I can do to help you, and I will do it for you.”

Stunned, Dixie didn’t know what to say, till Sue told her, “Dixie, we’re backed up like crazy in the kitchen. If he can cook, let him!” At the same moment, two tables started calling for service.

Rushed & frayed, Dixie just motioned to the man - “There’s the kitchen - if you can cook, go for it.”

“Senora,” he said happily, “You are going to be surprised and delighted. Cooking - cooking is my gift!” And he quickly went into the kitchen where Kurt, working frantically, at first barely noticed him as he started helping immediately.

However, as soon as the rush subsided, Kurt became aware of the man busily working beside him. “What are you?” he demanded suspiciously. “Chink, Mexican, Indian, what?”

“I am,” said the smiling Juan, unfazed, “the son of a full-blooded Spaniard and the daughter of a Seminole chief. What about you? What are you?” He looked politely interested as he posed the latter inquiry to Kurt.

“I’m an American, that’s what! And either you’re out of here or I am, bud!” Kurt shouted angrily.

Dixie’s voice from the door caught his attention, and he turned to look at her. “I think it’s time for you to go, Kurt,” she said quietly, but with conviction. “I think it’s time.”

Kurt started to splutter something, but then just looked in disgust at her, at Juan, and, opening the door, at the crowd in the dining room. With a snort of disgust, he removed his apron and strode to the outer door. “Hey, I wouldn’t wanna work here any more,” he said as he left, slamming the door behind him.

“In the pause that followed, Dixie pondered this development. Then she said softly, “Oh, dear. Now we’re short one cook again!”

“Don’t worry, bubula, plenty of people can cook. Show me the kitchen and I’ll make you food like you never tasted! Chicken soup with matzo balls, kishke, meatballs...”

“This,” said the Jewish man, “is my wife Goldy, and she is the best cook in the world.”

“Well, maybe not in the world,” said the foreign-looking woman sitting with them. “Let me in that kitchen, and you’ll taste food that will make you cry, it will be so delicious.”

Dixie flung out her arms in a gesture of release and acceptance. “Go!” she cried. “Both of you! Go! Cook! Why not?” She led the two of them to the kitchen and introduced them to Juan. Then, leaving the three of them talking excitedly, she returned to the dining room.

Now a rush of events seemed to have started. Every time Dixie turned around, there was another strange person before her offering their talents to her emporium. First, a young woman carrying a stack of artwork proposed to display them on the walls, “On consignment only — won’t cost you a dime and it will bring in customers, give the place some class!”

As she began her decorating efforts, another young woman appeared. This one brandished a violin. “Please, give me a chance!” she pleaded. “Let me try playing during the dinner hour and see how your customers like it!” And soon the sweet strains of the instrument floated across the room.

Meanwhile, someone in gardening clothes appeared and began setting a couple of potted plants in strategic places. And the three in the kitchen took turns putting up new signs for items such as tamales, borscht, and kishke, reminiscent of Dixie’s earlier nightmare experience. But now, she found herself rejoicing in the changes.

And then, suddenly, the lights went out. Everyone gasped, but they came on again a second later - and the group gasped again. In the middle of the room stood a darkly handsome young man dressed in some sort of Russian-looking costume. From somewhere came the sound of Balkan folk music, and he quickly launched himself into a lively solo dance that left everyone breathless just watching. He twirled, kneeled, kicked, turned - it was spectacular. As he finally spun to a stop, the room broke into hearty applause.

Then, silence fell as he turned gallantly toward Dixie, walked up to her and extended his hand. He drew her reluctant figure to the open space, and gently assumed a social dancing position. Then, softly, the violin began playing a lilting and delicate waltz, and the man gently guided Dixie into its steps. Slowly at first, then faster and more joyously, they danced, till finally a few other couples joined in.

As the waltz came to an end, all paused, unsure what to do next. But, as the light of sunset began to fill the room, and the sense of transformation became overwhelming in the Diner, one of the hippies leaped onto a table. “Let’s jam!” he cried. And instruments appeared out of nowhere, and people played on spoons, beat on tables and joined in, as an exuberant rock tune came bursting out.

And now, the Dream of Dixie’s Diner, fully colored and alive with singing and dancing and exotic people and foods and art and plants, reached its height. One by one, the people, starting with the hippies, then Dixie and her partner, Sue and the customers, began to ROCK! The three cooks came out of the kitchen and joined in. And finally, as though the spirit of it could no longer contain itself, they poured through the doors of the Diner out into the street, and danced merrily on into the sunset.

Did they live happily ever after? Truthfully, I don’t know. But, then again, “WHY NOT?”

CONTACT: Liberty Goodwin, 401-351-9193, or E-Mail: friendliberty@quakerworks.net,

If interested in possible use of this story or its script version for discussion, performance,

school or workshop (& improvisation) opportunities. NOTE: Liberty is now considering

creating a video of the story, then offering it as a DVD & Manual for Discussion package.

(She has previously done this with “The Rock” her story about bullying).3