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Writer's pictureKristin Lindstrom

Episode 70: The Show Must Go On

Air Florida Flight 90 passengers being rescued by helicopter. Photo

by U.S.A. Today


It was a dark, snowy January afternoon in 1982 when Air Florida Flight 90 dropped 350 feet out of the clouded sky and crashed into the 14th Street bridge then fell into the freezing waters of the Potomac River. It had taken off only 30 seconds before from Washington National Airport. It had had one round of deicing and although take off had been delayed, the pilot decided not to return for more nor to turn on the airplane’s own deicing system.

Seventy-three people aboard died in that crash, not to mention four in cars on the bridge. Another passenger died trying to help others. Leonard Sputnik, a passerby, became a hero that day by helping to pull people out of the river. Due to the weather, and especially bad traffic, rescue efforts were compromised.

I listened to the news in my living room as this tragedy unfolded; I was due to be at the Opera House at 7:00 to help with the makeup. Traffic was jammed in all directions, so I decided to take the Metro. That is until I heard the next story. Thirty minutes after the Air Florida crash, three people were killed and 25 injured when an Orange Line subway train derailed downtown.

That’s my line. What the hell is going on?

I tried to call the Opera House management to see if the show was going to go on. No one answered. I figured I’d better get down there; I’d go on foot.

As the crow flies, my two-bedroom apartment at Colonial Village above Rosslyn wasn’t that far from the Kennedy Center. But I wouldn’t be traveling as the crow flies. I’d be slogging through the snow, ice, and slush, a good fourth of the way downhill. I’d be forging across Key Bridge and through Georgetown on sidewalks that had not been shoveled. Not surprisingly, there weren’t many people out and about. Hopefully, the opera fiends[1] would decide the better part of valor would be to stay home.

But no.

I made it to New Hampshire Avenue and turned toward the Kennedy Center. Two gentlemen passed me on the narrow sidewalk, and I recognized one of them as an English actor I’d had a crush on some years ago. But when he began to speak as they hurried ahead of me, I realized he would never have been interested in me. I remembered a recent review in The Post complaining that there was no romantic ‘spark’ between this actor and the leading lady.

No wonder.

I finally arrived at the Kennedy Center and got into the backstage door, only to be shuffled upstairs to a space outside the director’s office door, where many of the backstage staff were gathered. We all looked at each other with question marks in our eyebrows until a member of the chorus whispered to me, “There’s a bomb!”

A BOMB!?

“They think there’s a bomb hidden backstage at the Opera House. Someone called in a bomb threat.”

Well, shit. What are we all waiting around for? To be blown to smithereens?

“Why don’t they send us home?” I asked, sotto voce.

“I guess if it’s nothing, or they find it and get it out of here, the show will probably go on.”

“Seriously? Seventy-four people dead in an air crash, four dead in cars on the bridge, three dead in a subway derailment and 25 people injured, and now a bomb threat, and the show must go on?” I was aghast.

“We may as well settle in and get comfortable,” this fellow said, taking off his coat and making a nest for himself on the floor. I did the same.

But the natives were restless that night. More and more of the nervous chorus members were gathering around the director’s liquor cabinet. It didn’t take much to liberate the contents, which were sampled liberally amongst the crowd. I declined.

It was a long wait, several hours, until we were told the coast was clear. And whatdya know? The opera fiends were mostly all in their seats, eager to see the show. Half the staff was drunk, and the other half exhausted.

The bomb threat and possible bomb were never reported to the press. And at $35 a night, I reckoned I’d maybe clear $5.00 an hour.

The show did go on.

[1] Opera enthusiasts are famously fanatical about their chosen ’hobby.’ I thought of them as fiends due to their obsessiveness.

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1 comentário


crosser_inks.0o
30 de nov. de 2022

Kristin, all this should be in a book! You have had, and continue to have, the most fascinating experiences, with the oddest people. You did makeup, too? Extra fascinating!

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