Bowled over.

Garry and Ramyne Spire invited me — last minute — to the Hollywood Bowl on Thursday night.

It was 9-11, they said, and symbolic because they’d been at the Bowl with their then-young sons the night of that terrible tragedy.  As a tribute, they’d planned to reconvene at the Bowl to honor those we lost.

Unfortunately, at 4 o’clock the afternoon of the concert,  one of their sons didn’t feel well.  The other couldn’t make it either.  And so they were left with two box seat tickets that were too good to waste.

Garry, whom I’ve met through my new work at UC Santa Cruz, promptly invited his good friend Peter Hankoff.  And since Peter and I are friends, too, Garry had the great idea to have me come along as the “surprise guest”.

He contacted me at 4:30PM.

I was at a meeting at the Jonathan Club downtown, where no phone calls are allowed.  When I got back to the office — I discovered Garry’s text.

I wasn’t dressed for the Bowl.  I was wearing a pleated peach-colored skirt and a lacy sleeveless blouse.  High heels, but I had a pair of silver flats that I’d brought for the walk from the parking lot to our office.

“I can do it,” I wrote back.   “What fun!”  I asked Garry if his wife Ramyne could bring me a wrap, which she did.  I raced down the freeway at 6:30PM, got there before they did, and stood in front of the gift shop as planned.  I was nervous and excited.  Would it be a surprise?  Would Peter have a clue?  I scanned every group that came huffing & puffing my way, but nobody was them.

After what seemed endless, I got a text, “We’re almost there.”

My heart beat faster. I hadn’t pulled off a surprise since Vin’s birthday party. It’s stressful to play a prank on someone.  I hoped I wouldn’t blow it.  Garry hadn’t told me what I should do when they got there, so I turned toward the display window and pretended to be studying the wares.  I decided I wanted to see them as they came up though, so I turned back around and tried not look natural — which in my case meant not to nervously pace.

When they got up the hill, I could see them.  I stood still — and then I heard Peter ask, “Is that Erica Gerard?  Are you my date?”

I pushed forth from the display case and gave everyone a hug.

“It’s your lucky day,” I said.

Peter, always quick with a retort, corrected, “No, it’s YOUR lucky day.”

“This couldn’t have been done any better had we planned it six months in advance!” I exulted when Garry and I walked to the entrance.  He was smiling ear-to-ear.

We toasted ourselves, took a few “selfies”, and settled in to a balmy night of Beethoven’s Ninth.