People began arriving almost immediately. Not in an orderly line, but in drifting clusters, as if the very idea of standing single-file offended the spirit of a small-town event. Forms appeared from coat pockets, purses, folded into neat squares or crumpled like they had been an afterthought.
I took a breath and reminded myself that this was manageable. It was just paper. All I had to do was schedule them into the available time slots and make sure it was family friendly entertainment.
The first form I received listed the talent as “spoken word.”
“Wonderful,” I said, because that sounded encouraging.
“It’s interpretive,” the woman added.
“Of course it is.”
She smiled as if this clarified everything and moved aside.
Marjorie leaned over my shoulder. “Did she need special lighting?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Do we have special lighting?”
“We have lights,” Marjorie replied.
That felt like the wrong answer, but it was the only one we had.
Mr. Humphrey arrived five minutes later with a small box tucked under his arm and a look of quiet triumph on his face. He set the box on the table and opened it to reveal a collection of stamps, all different shapes and sizes, none of which appeared to have anything to do with approval or scheduling.
“These are very official,” he said.
“I’m sure they are,” I replied doubtfully as I looked them over.
He nodded and sat down, immediately stamping the top form with a flourish.
“I haven’t read that one yet,” I said gently.
“Yes, excellent,” he replied.
I closed my eyes briefly and reopened them with resolve.
The forms multiplied quickly. A father and son duo wanted to perform a comedy routine involving props that were not listed. A teenager wrote “surprise” in the talent description and smiled ominously. Someone else had written “singing (probably)” with a question mark.
I attempted to sort them into piles so we could organize them. The pile labeledothergrew faster than the rest.
“Kitty,” Marjorie said, pointing. “This one says they need fifty minutes for their act.”
“That’s not possible,” I said.
“They said it’s for emotional buildup.”
“Everyone gets five to ten minutes,” I replied.
Marjorie frowned sympathetically. “Should I tell them?”
“Yes,” I said. “Please.”
She nodded and immediately told them twenty minutes. I quickly corrected her and Marjorie apologized. TThe person grabbed their form in a huff, muttering about how they were going to have to think about this.
Mr. Humphrey stamped something again.
A woman leaned forward conspiratorially as she gave us her form. “Will there be judges?”
“No,” I said quickly. “It’s just for the community.”
