The day Paul Lynde died, my stepfather Curt and my Aunt Inez ran off together. I wasn’t surprised; she had always shown so much (unusual) affection toward Curt that I’d joked about her “schoolgirl crush” with the guys in my latest band, Nipple Clamp.
Anyway, Mom had turned into a blubbering wreck after her first marriage had collapsed, but now she led me in twirling, Fred-and-Ginger-style dance moves in our kitchen. I wouldn’t find out about Lynde’s death until twenty years later, by which time I’d started genuinely liking movie musicals, even the Auto-Tuned ones, though Mom still hates those.
Copyright © 2021 by David V. Matthews