I had only known him an hour, or rather, I had known him for an entire hour, which is a long time considering I had only come into his shop to pick up my keys. When I walked through the door he was chatting with an Asian kid, college age with square glasses and a smile that would have been charming if it wasn't framed by flaking acne. I didn't interrupt or even try to look impatient because I felt guilty for showing up late, right at 5:00 P.M. when the shop was supposed to close. I stood by the door and admired the overcrowded gallery eccentrica that was his 12x12 office. Not an inch of wall space was left unadorned. Side by side hung two identical photographs, the size of road signs, of a man (who I assumed to be a younger Craig) standing and beaming next to a sky blue Volkswagen van. Next to them, a water color painting of a yellow VW beetle in the center of winter landscape. My eyes scanned the collage of postcards and car calendars and bumper stickers and they eventually landed on a poster, still in its plastic cover, of America comprised entirely of license plates carved in the shape of their corresponding states.
"She must be stoned out her mind ha ha," Craig had finally acknowledged my presence. "Just look at her over there in La La land!"
"It's a cool poster," I said with a marijuana smile, "and so what if I am?" I am an Easter egg when I meet new people. Dunk me in a pot of sailors and I swear, in a pot of housewives and I gossip. I assume the color of the people around me.
It worked. Their low chuckles baptized me into their ring. "Yeah that's a new one I got, haven't decided where to put it yet. My dad painted the one next to it," Craig indicated to the yellow beetle watercolor. "Bona fide artist my old man." He said artist like arteest to sound... French I guess. "I've dappled here and there myself," he pointing with false modesty to a giant canvas covered in red and white dripping swirls. It looked like an entire bag of peppermint candies had melted on it. He showed us a few of his other pieces, mostly "abstracts," mostly red.
I couldn't tell what his relationship was with the Asian kid. Boss/employee? Mentor/mentee? At first I thought they were old friends--they seemed chummy--but then I realized he might just be another customer. Craig was not a clam. Craig's the guy that sits next to you at a bus stop or on a plane, unzips his jacket, and then unzips his chest and spills his entire heart on your lap before you even get a chance to shake his hand.
"But my real passion has always been acting." Without warning, an angry Clint Eastwood was snarling at me to get the fuck off his lawn. Then an angry Al Pacino was shout-asking why the fuck! was it so hard to find a goddamn sandwich in New York--heavy accent on the yawk in York. Craig--back in jovial non-violent Craig persona--pulled up his Facebook profile to show us pictures of him in costumes and a YouTube video of a movie trailer featuring him as an albino mafia man. Before that video finished he was already loading another one of an internet talk show featuring him as the guest star Al Pacino, which led to us watching an interview with the real Al Pacino so that Craig could repeat each sentence to show us how uncanny his impersonation was.
Meanwhile, the Asian kid was taking every possible opportunity to ask me out.
Craig- "I do stand up comedy at some local places around here."
Asian kid- "Cool! I'll have to take Katie there this weekend." He casts an unrequited sideways glance.
Craig- "This girl probably doesn't even know which car is hers, she's so toasted, ha ha."
Asian kid- "I have a bowl, we should go have a light."
Me- "I should probably go soon, I need to grab some dinner."
Asian kid- "Man, I'm starving! Am I invited?"
I put my credit card on the table. It felt like whipping out a text book at a party, so square of me to try and conduct business when we are all having such a chill time. I attempted to make a joke about how he could keep the change to distract them from my uncoolness. As he was reaching for the card his hand lost its way and found a small clay dish on the table. "My dad made this too, he's a potter." But then he noticed the price tag still stuck to the bottom and pondered, "Or did I buy this one?" From the Mary Poppins bag of his shelves he pulled out more and more show and tell trinkets: Santa riding a motorcycle, a giant red button that shouted "Bull shit!" when pressed, light up bottle openers, etc, etc, ad infinitum. It was a collection rivaling even my grandmother's, a midwestern Catholic connoisseur of figurines and prank novelties.
The Asian kid, who had finally introduced himself as Jason after the first seven pickup lines failed to gain him any traction, was still interrogating me about my dinner plans. It was rain on the parade or set up camp for the night. I extended my arm straight out in front of me, palm up, "Keys please?" Every party has a pooper. Craig made me close my eyes and put a rubber spider in my hand. I laughed, but not too much.
I promised Craig a raving five-star Yelp review and told Jason I was meeting a friend for dinner. I drove out of the parking lot, $300 poorer, one good story richer.
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