So I am in FedEx wasting my life for the second time this holiday season. I swear I hate the demise of the book store, but the day the print and copy stores go under I will dance on their grave with my new black boots and laugh out loud in that maniacal way I reserve for just such occasions.
Sorry I got distracted, …anyway, the store was basically empty (except for crickets and the potential for terrible service) so I stood with the only other fool in the place who happened to ask me if I was an artist. What gave it away I thought, then I looked down at my mangled appearance, my 47 copies of misprinted art and the paintbrush dangling from my torn jeans pocket. I said yes. We go thru the obligatory chat that strangers endure and after a moment, I fish a business-like card out of the beautiful purse my mother gave me when she cleansed her closet last fall.
I hand the card to her, a 2×3.5 inch card with a blue crudely painted puppet named Chaz on one side and my portfolio address on the other. I smile half-heartedly.
“No way, that’s you?”
“I just sent your postcard to my friend in a care package”
“Yes, I got it at The Collective. I actually took two postcards. I loved them.”
Then she went on about owning a shop downtown and her last name actually being “Wonderful” which made my day awesome after a heavy dose of nothing special!
What a cool thing to happen in such a dreadful place. I think that may be my biggest compliment ever…”No way, that’s you.”
Wow. I wouldn’t call it fame, but I’ll take it and smile.