Now, I was not in the mood for strolling through any art galleries. Even in a good mood, it's not something I really enjoy doing. Public art is quickly dying for me, galleries and movie theaters included. I would much rather take these things in an environment I can control.
Anyways, my disinterest and fatigue made me as bored, cranky and impatient as a six year old boy, and I kept asking myself what the hell we were doing there when I KNEW we weren't going to buy anything.
My interest wandered to a shelf full of attractively-made, hand-carved spoons and ladles, the only things in the store that actually seemed to have a function outside of being put on a table in someone's parlor. I reached my hand out to one of the slotted spoons. My touch caused every spoon to shift slightly to the right, until one rolled off the top shelf and fell to the floor, hitting every other shelf on the way down and making an unnecessarily loud sound with every impact.
A hush descended and the attention of everyone in the store veered in my direction. Their embarrassment for me was palpable, but didn't exceed my own. A woman was heard indignantly saying, "That wasn't my kid."
A lady came over and asked me if anything was broken. "UH I DON THINK SO," I said. She picked up the spouted ladle and pointed at a nick in the spout, and told me the spoon was $44.
"Huh..." I slowly reached for my wallet, reluctant but ready to take out one of the beautiful, crisp fifty dollar bills from my last paycheck. "I'll charge you $22," she said. I was suprised at her generosity, but relieved regardless. I paid her, and she gave me the spoon in a bag.
Four days later, I found the same spoon in Provincetown for $25.
HA CHA CHA CHA CHA
So now I've got a spoon. A spoon of my own.
I need a headshot, and I don't want to pay fifty bucks for one.
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