Thanks to scratchtasia , a.k.a. Randy Paske

He smiled moistly.  “Those are my little nippers up there.”  Pointing toward the stage, he elaborated, “the one on the left is Christopher, and the second from the right is Anthony.”

I set my jaw and stared forward at the stage.  “I know.”

We watched the recital in silence.  I had just started to get involved in the music and the voices of my children when he leaned over again: “Is smoking allowed in here?”

I glared.  “No.  If you don’t mind?”

He laughed nervously.  “Of course.  Sorry.” 

A minute or two later, he pulled a flask from his suit jacket and took a slug.  I resolutely ignored him, even when he offered me the flask.

The next few songs proceeded uneventfully – a hymn, some familiar carols – and I began to think the man had finally gotten the point.  I relaxed and found myself exchanging smiles with him as we applauded.  Mistake.  In the middle of “Joy to the World,” he slapped my arm and grinned, “Listen to those little nippers sing!”  Then he took another surreptitious sip from his flask.

I gave him a look that withered.

At the end of the concert, I took the opportunity to use the men’s room while the children were still backstage.  The man was washing his hands at the sink when I came in.

He smiled apologetically.  “I’m sorry to have bothered you.  Have a good evening, and merry Christmas.”

I ignored him and pushed open the door to a stall.  I heard him hesitate briefly, then leave the restroom.

Finally.  The nerve.  Drinking at a children’s concert.  For shame.

I did two lines, wiped my nose, and went out to congratulate my kids.

Copyright 2004 Amy Frushour Kelly