Anyway. So I’m waiting at the Gap for my wife to try on some outfits. I sit down, I read the book. Later I wander up to the men’s floor, try some shorts, size Small; baggy beyond belief. But! They have X-small size. They fit. Hmm. Time, perhaps, to eat carbs again. As I buy the shorts the clerk says:
“Are you a writer?”
I think: what?
“There were some people up here,” he said, “who pointed at you as you went into the changing rooms? And they said you were a writer.”
I spread my arms out. “They were correct. I am a writer.”
And I’m thinking: how nice that I was carrying around a battered 1957 book, eh? That’s just what writers do! I went downstairs and related the anecdote to my wife, who said that the clerks had been whispering about something there being a writer upstairs.
Don’t think I didn’t milk that one all night. Hello, there’s a writer in the kitchen, looking for ice! Make way, mortal. What, you want to change the channel? Don’t you know a WRITER is watching this?
I want to be able to do that someday. Well, granted, I could do it now, but I'd be a delusional jerk. It'd be better if I were just a jerk. I think I have to publish something first. You know, aside from on my website.