“Cawwy me, Awnold!”

A friend reminds me that Frankenstein came from a dream of Mary Shelley’s.

So what classic will this dream of mine beget?

With a plot based far too much on “Bullets Over Broadway,” I dreamed a story the other night in which a rich man made the production of a play possible in exchange for a walk-on role.

But of course, as rehearsals began, he lobbied for a larger role, which he assured everyone he could improvise.

“I’ve got a whole backstory for this guy!” he said. “His name’s Arnold!”  (It was an unnamed character.)

The directors thought they had him convinced he shouldn’t do anything like that, but of course, the first preview performance, the guy started improvising and everyone on stage was just horrified, except this one little old woman, who sidled up to him, launched herself into his arms, and shouted,

“Cawwy me, Awnold!”

At which point the rest of the cast figured out how to hustle him offstage and everything worked out fine.

And that, my friends, is the main difference between me and Mary Shelley.* She dreams a literary classic; I dream a story with a lisp.

*Well, that, and the whole Percy Bysshe thing.

My favorite part is that the little old woman  who saved the day invented a speech impediment on the spot, solely for the purposes of distracting him.

She was a clever little old woman.  Maybe I could write it up as a slightly longer story….

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