Call Me Larry

Larry Sprinkle and Me at Matthews Has Talent

You could say Larry Sprinkle and I go way back. The veteran weatherman and broadcaster is known for his warm smile, diligent community service, and his perfect (and real) last name in Charlotte, North Carolina. For me, he is an inadvertent guest star in my life. He has witnessed both my mundane and stage-worthy moments. In fact, he’s the only person who has seen me in a hairnet and bellydance costume. Not at the same time, of course.

I was a chatty cashier at Harris Teeter when I was eighteen. I would say to customers, “What are you going to do with that cheese?” or “I would bake the chicken this way…” This ground my checkout speed to a crawl. Then, a famous face spurred me to pick up the pace. I was not going to let one of the other cashiers steal him from my line. Larry held a green basket. He was taller in person yet just as majestically coiffed. 

“Hello Mr. Sprinkle,” I said.

“Why hello there,” he replied.
“Do you have your VIC card today?”
“Yes, I do.”

I don’t remember what we talked about after that. I was trying not to interrogate him about his groceries.

Soon, my talkativeness went from liability to strength. I was promoted to the fine cheese kiosk, where I could rattle off a hundred reasons to buy Emmentaler at $11.99 a pound instead of Swiss. That’s where Larry saw me in a hairnet. He approached my cold Fortress of Fromage with another green basket (must not be a cart person, I thought). I pretended to casually arrange brie and said, “Mr. Sprinkle, would you like a sample?” He politely said no, he was vegetarian. Then he said, “Please, call me Larry.” I wanted to reply, “Please, call me Joanne,” but my nametag made that a moot point.

My 21st Birthday!

Months later, my birthday at an Italian restaurant put me into a turtle cheesecake coma. My friends and I went to walk it off at HT, where we could visit our people on the second shift. As I stepped onto the curb there was Larry, close enough to high five. He recognized me somewhat, but probably had to work through his previous image of me in a hairnet. “Larry, it’s my 21^st birthday,” I said. “Will you please take a picture with me?” Larry obliged. My best friend, Nicole, snapped a photo of us with her film camera.

This past March, I was tempted to say, “Larry, we have to stop meeting like this.” I was a finalist as a bellydancer in Matthews Has Talent! Behind the curtain, I struggled to quiet my gold anklets. Between my sequined two-piece costume and involuntary jingling, I was shocked the audience didn’t see or hear me. Then, a shadow etched in stage lights emerged. My former HT customer/accidental birthday guest was now the Master of Ceremonies. He flipped through his blue cards and asked, “Is it pronounced, ‘Or-ee-an-tal?” “Orientale Dance” was another term for bellydance. He got it right.

I did not get into the whole “meeting this way” thing. I was going by my stage name “Layla” and was dolled up within an inch of my life. It would be a miracle if he put my hairnet self and bellydance self together as one person. Before my entrance, Larry introduced me: “Performing an ‘Or-ee-an-tal’ style dance, please welcome Layla!”

Since then, I’ve only seen Larry on TV. If you come to expect bumping into someone, you will never see that person. That’s a fact. It’s only a matter of time before I’m bee-bopping about town in a feathered hat or sequined vest (or both), minding my own business, and Larry will reappear. I can’t predict whether there will be high winds or 50% chance of thunderstorms that day. I’ll leave that up to Larry.

Ma'am, She Can't Drive!

Fast approach. Sideswipe. You just died. My driving teacher’s phrases snap together like pieces of a puzzle as I brake in rush hour traffic. Even though I’m a grown gal with a ride, mortgage, and career, Paul Faulkner will always be a grand influence in my life. He taught me the rules of the road.

Mr. Faulkner, King of the Road!

At eighteen, I was a danger to myself and others behind the wheel. My long-suffering mom and dad risked their lives as my co-pilot in many a parking lot and street. Rock bottom came when I spectacularly failed the driving test (my first of three). The examiner clung to the handlebar as I almost sideswiped a truck in the left lane. My U-turn almost took out a sign and the screech of my brakes at a red light made the bald fifty-something’s life flash before his eyes.

Back at the DMV, my poor mom waited on a grassy hill with the other expectant parents. The teens rocketed out of their cars with exuberant sounds of “I passed!” met with “I’m so proud of you!” But not me. I clawed up the mountain like a wounded soldier, tears streaming down my face. “I failed!” I cried, rushing into my mom’s arms. The other parents backed away as if I was a plague on their victories. The shaky examiner begged my mom to keep me off the road.

If my determined mom had divined my savior, she couldn’t have done any better than Mr. Faulkner. That first day, he stood in my driveway like he owned it. He wore bold sweaters with the ultimate authority in personal fashion, which added to his astounding charisma and cadence. He told my mom that I could drive and I just needed to learn the rules. My mom made no bones about the fact that I had to succeed. Mr. Faulkner said there was no way I was going to fail on his watch.

Faulkner’s “information overload” method kept me in a constant state of awareness. He used phrases like “fast approach” if you came up too quickly on another car, “sideswipe” if you drifted out of your lane, and the big one: “You just died.” His bold emphasis on “died” made you feel like you had actually passed on and he was the minister eulogizing at your funeral. He dared you to face the realities of even the smallest mistake. Because of this, you felt that much more redeemed when you looked both ways before entering an intersection.

When I failed for a second time on a technicality (I made a right on red instead of stopping before turning), Mr. Faulkner did not yell. He never raised his voice, because he didn’t have to. He gave me a hug and said we would return next week. We reviewed our game plan. That third time proved to be the charm. The examiner said what I longed to hear: “Congratulations, you passed.” I ran to Mr. Faulkner screaming, “I passed!” We celebrated with a trip to Chick-fil-A, my treat. The months of hearing “You just died” had paid off.

Fast forward seven years, and Mr. Faulkner and I are doing lunch at Mimosa Grill. I’m interviewing him for The Charlotte Observer. I tell him that I haven’t had one accident since I got my license with a stationary or moving object. As we dive into our salads, Mr. Faulkner reveals that it’s been his dream to be interviewed by one of his students. I realize I’ve become as much a part of his life as he has mine. My driving lessons are a shared accomplishment in facing challenges and pursuing a passion. He tells me, “They say that if you find something you enjoy doing, you never work. I haven’t worked a day in my life.”

Check out my profile on Mr. Faulkner: http://www.charlotteobserver.com/2011/10/30/2727008/hes-been-king-of-the-road-for.html