A stubborn latch

The movie is sold out and we've already had supper and a beer and bowl of peanuts from our old favorite bar. So we drive to college, which is now right down the road, past where the old filthy fraternities are now pretty green meadows. The door to our old theater department is accidentally open, a stubborn latch. Inside, photographs of me are on the walls in glass cases: artifacts of my glory days of lit stages. I feel old and somewhat wise, while simultaneously feeling like the fat football jock who lingers beside the rusty rickety bleachers hoping someone might recognize his name from an old trophy or his face from a framed newspaper clipping.  There I was, happy. Life was easy back then, back when I thought it was hard.