I don't know what made me think it was a good idea.
Perhaps it was the mischievous grin the UPS guy & I always shared when he dropped off or picked up packages.
Perhaps it was the reams of paper, stacks of post-its and such that was within those boxes.
What-ever my reasoning, I guess a reasonably intelligent business owner should have known better than have a girl who daydreams about being a Pixie, a Fairy or even BeWitched as his office manager.
'I'm gonna borrow some office supplies, if that's OK. I promise I get 'em back to you in the next week or so.'
Ever-so-trusting...'Sure. Never a problem Skinny.'
'Thanks'
Ten packs of post-its turned into fifteen, then maybe even twenty. I lost count, but I kept them all, knowing that I would have to make good on my word to the boss-man.
In fact, I kept them in a cigar box.
Then, I kept them in two.
Finally, I had them in three.
Three. 3. The magic number.
I fiddled and faddled with those plain, mundane little squares of sticky paper night after night.
Alone sometimes, but usually with good company and sometimes even some not-so-good-company, but company none-the-less.
Armed with permi-markers & cold beer, we would sit around my kitchen table and doodle.
A flower.
A candle.
A sun.
A man.
A peace sign.
A word.
A sentence.
A song.
A thought.
Finally, I gathered the three boxes & took them with me.
First,
I covered the white mercedes benz convertible, inside & out.
Then I left a trail, like cookie crumbs from the car across the cold concrete to the door.
In the door the trail led though one room, down a hall and ultimately to the downstairs bathroom.
Why the downstairs bathroom?
Because I never used it.
Happy Birthday to the boss-man.
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9 years ago
