three minutes in dance hall heaven…

NB: This post marks the debut of a new category: random stories that may or may not be true. This one happens to be true.

So I gave up my life in musical theater and I went to – ahh, Jesus – law school. (I know.)

It was my first year, and I was living with a roommate in a rehabbed Victorian in a bad neighborhood, in a large-ish small city.

My roommate at the time was a graphic artist who’d lived in the city a few years. Consequently, she knew a few more people than Little Hermit Annie did.

So one Friday night, roomie gets tired of my sad lonely muppet face and drags me out with her to meet a friend of hers, who was also bringing a new friend.

Got all that?

We arrive at the appointed venue – and folks, when I say this was a “dive bar,” I mean this was a dive bar to shame all the little baby wannabe dive bars back into being wig shops and no-name hardware stores. It smelled of gin and desperation, and it was grim.

Roomie and I sit at the bar – since the bartender seems the least likely to kill us, notwithstanding the little knife in his hands he’s using to chop up lemons, OK – and we order beers.  And we sit. And we sit. And we sit. (This was the early-mid ’90’s, before cell phones were ubiquitous, kiddos.)

And FINALLY, at long sweet last, the door opens and roomie’s friend walks in.

With her new friend.

And her new friend is …

Gregory motherfucking Hines.

THIS guy:

Yes, that’s right. Theater nerd Annie hung up her tap shoes to go to law school, where she met – and DANCED WITH, on a sad excuse for a dance floor in the backroom of a crappy, crappy dive bar – Gregory motherfucking Hines.

May he rest in peace. I will never forget our three  minutes in dancehall heaven.

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