The blessing in the crisis moment

When I am told that the interview is canceled no me doy por vencida. I will shape-shift until I get through the keyhole. Its wide, shaped like a mushroom, like the one's on the doors in my apartment that only take skeleton keys, let in drafts, and allow you to peek into the other side. What great strides I've made, I think, when it dawns on me that the younger me would have stayed home and sulked.

I show up early, and record audio from the author's presentation to some very lucky high school students. The sound quality is less than ideal but I am covering my bases, preparing for the worst: in case the interview never gets granted, I will have audio to work with and turn out something if I get creative enough.

The moment for introduction to the author arrives. Moments ago I popped a violet breath mint into my mouth, por si las dudas. With the flavor of purple flowers coating my tongue I find the courage for anything--I am ready. I quietly compete for the attention of my subject and don't let the six foot tall and four foot wide media escort intimidate me. He can probably tackle a football giant but what I learned as a kid that played floor hockey is that being short means you are faster and can duck under him and swiftly hit your puck with an upward twist and make it fly up and over the goalies shoulder.

"I was hoping I could ask you a few quick questions," I blurt out.

"Definitely, but let's walk and talk," she is anxious to get out.

We make it out to the lobby, she points to a bench, and asks that I please send her the interview when its done, and hands me her business card with contact info. We sit on a four foot bench, our bodies angled to face each other, we sit closer than I usually like to get to people but neither of us seems to notice or mind at this moment--she smells like cremita, not quite Jergens perhaps Ponds.

I pull the questions out my bag, I wrote them down in case I forget, a script printed in twelve point trebuchet as my first aid kit. I ask my first and most important question, the one I meditated on until it arrived through a moment of enlightenment. The question that I had not seen asked anywhere else and now she is answering it, and her words are gems and I am lucky enough to be capturing them on my tiny digital recorder and I am trying to focus and process everything about this most surreal moment.

And then I hear a beep, I frown confused, I look down at my digital recorder and see a full battery signal so I do not understand what is wrong, until the words 'memory full' begin to flash on the small screen. My heart sinks, I melt into a puddle on the floor like Amelie after Nino exits the cafe. I look up in disbelief and in a barely audible voice and with wide terrified eyes I say, "my recorder just ran out of memory."

"Who cares," she says, "listen to me." She really wants me to listen, and my brain says, listen, you really need to hear this, this is not about the interview, her message is for you. So, I listen. I take incoherent notes: she finds it in the crisis moment.

I'm having a crisis moment, I think. She finishes her answer and looks at me.

"I will not be able to send you any audio but I'll write something and send that," I say, I don't want to come off as ungrateful for her time. She looks confused. "I wanted to have something on audio to share with others but I ran out of memory but I'll write something from my notes," I ramble on.

She looks at me and says, "Let's schedule a phone interview."

We get up, the media escort steps up, helps her with her coat and she asks, "What was your name again?"

"Irasema."

"Irasema," she repeats. "That name's a keeper."

"The first time I read my name in print was in your book," I say.

She pauses and smiles. She goes on to bid me farewell with a hug and a kiss. She is whisked away by that media escort.