My only chance now is to find a way of getting there without taking the train. Someone will have to drive us all the way to Boston, all the way to Berklee Performance Center. It can’t be Gordy’s father, he already has something to do. It can’t be Mom—she’ll be at work. It can’t be Marty—he’ll be here. It can’t be Dad, either. Whoever it is, we would have to leave the house at exactly seven thirty, no later. The driver will speed. We will fly down Route 1 to the auditorium, assuming there is no traffic. We will not look for parking spaces. We will be ejected, thrown, rolled, whatever, out of the car right at the entrance, and the driver will take off. We will run, panting, into the building with our tickets out, past the ushers, into a darkened auditorium, the last people to take their seats, provided the show hasn’t already started, in which case we might be asked to wait, during the opening number, right inside the door. Who can I find? Who will help me?
What, you kids are planning on taking the train? Nobody should take a train on a night like this. Here, take the limo.
Who can I find?
I can’t find anyone.