When I was 12 my Dad picked me up to take me to one of my performances at some random mall or nursing home. I always had the feeling that he attended these events out of duty more than parental pride. I assume that if the event had incorporated a ball of some sort it might have been more his style. Good Dad that he was, he always stood appropriately straight and attentive in the back of the crowd and clapped at all the right times. I'm sure he had trouble getting "It's a Hard Knock Life!" out of his head for days but he never complained.
While we were in the car, me appropriately lipsticked and sequined, he asked if I had watched the news that night. I said no (nothing got between me and "The Brady Bunch") and he mentioned that there was something exciting happening in St. Louis. This got my attention since most of my relatives lived in Missouri at the time.
"The Russians dropped the bomb." he said.
"A Nuclear bomb?" I asked.
"Yup, and they are several more on their way, Los Angeles is one of the targets."
My throat went dry. Certain death. This was it. Cold hands, heart pounding, this was it. I managed to get through the show, the rest of the night was a blur, all except the moment when I stepped into the shower before bed.
"Why even take a shower? What's the point? It's all over anyway."
I don't remember how I figured it all out. I don't even know if my Dad meant for me to take him seriously.
I did not watch the movie, my parents watched it and I hid in my room.
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