Party Crasher

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Strange But True Harp Stories

Someone was supposed to be there at the loading dock—that’s what the booking agent said. But after repeatedly punching the intercom unit with no reply, I knew I wouldn’t be entering through these particular State House bowels.

Phoning the booking agent yielded no assistance—his part was done and over. Left on my own to find an alternate entrance, I reload the harp and back out dangerously fast, speeding through a parking garage gate. Rounding the corner, I spot a wide berth of glass doors through which a very well-dressed group of individuals is marching in. I pull up short, grab my bag, bench, and music stand, and follow them.

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