The Dothan Opera House is an old building, constructed during World War I. Everyone has performed here. Willie Nelson, the Statler Brothers, Conway Twitty, Bob Dylan.
It’s a nice building. The brick edifice is Classical Revival. The arched windows are Italianate. The city recently pumped some major cashola into this place. And it shows. The opera house is gorgeous.
I arrived early for a pre-performance soundcheck, driving our dilapidated van, “Myrtle.” Myrtle is not gorgeous.
Myrtle used to be a plumber’s van. Myrtle has been with us a long time. She looks exactly like the kind of van you’d expect to be driven by a guy who, whenever he squats to work beneath your kitchen sink, you see eight inches of exposed, bare, white gluteal cleft.
My name was on the opera house marquee. I saw this, and my eyes started to blur.
My life began here in Dothan. Of all places. About 12 years ago.
At the time, I had just graduated from community college. Before that, I had been a dropout. I earned my high-school equivalency. Which, consequently, is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Anyone who believes GED recipients are not as smart as everyone else should take the GED exam.
Being a dropout is difficult. When you’re a dropout, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re a waste of oxygen. This feeling pervades your being. You walk into a room of ordinary folks and, no matter who they are, you rank beneath them.
After a while, the dropout begins the slow process of devaluing himself or herself. You start to believe what everyone else believes. You are trash. Lower than trash. Societal debris.
People give you weird looks when they hear that you didn’t attend high school. They look at your feet and seem surprised that you’re wearing shoes. You can often see what your conversational partners are thinking whenever you open your mouth to speak. “This idiot has never even taken the SATs.”
Well, 12 years ago a woman from the Houston County library emailed and asked if I would come to the library and give a talk about my first book. My first response was, um, no way. Abso-LUTELY not. I’m not a real author. I’m just a guy who wrote a book of funny stories.
Besides, nobody wants to hear a dropout open his mouth. But the lady kept emailing. Eventually, I caved.
I set up in the back of the library. I brought my guitar. I was prepared to be embarrassed. I knew they were going to laugh me out of the building.
I was nervous. Mostly, for two reasons. I thought (a) nobody would show up, and (b) the few unfortunates who did would regret it.
But I’ll never forget that day. The room began to fill. Soon, the space was standing-room only. Then people began filing outside onto the sidewalk. They all held copies of my book. The people asked me to tell stories. So I did. Then they asked me to play guitar. And I did.
The whole day was a blur. I remember at some point applying my autograph to an elderly woman’s brassiere region.
And I also remember crawling back into Myrtle and finally letting the emotions out. I wept into my wife’s shoulder as she embraced me.
We were interrupted by someone who worked at the library. The woman rapped on our car window. She saw me sitting there, tears all over my face, snot adorning my upper lip.
“You realize what this means,” she said with a soft smile. “Dothan claims you. You’re ours now.”
And that was the day I ceased being a dropout
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Originally published on Sean’s website. Republished here with permission.
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