At one point in the evening, seated sort of behind but next to me was a writer wearing really old Chucks held together at the toe with an equally old piece of duct tape that curled at the edges. I don't know what he looked like because I couldn't take my eyes off his shoes. I couldn't stop thinking of all the things that stuck to the turned up corner of tape on his shoe that kept going from destination to destination with him. And by things I mean whatever is on the floor of a public bathroom. He crossed his foot over his knee and rested his hand on his ankle, the tape dangerously close to his hand, and closer to me.
He was engrossed in a serious conversation with a man whose hands were all the way in the front pockets of his jeans. Was he afraid of the tape, too? I couldn't see the rest of his outfit because I was afraid to look away from THE TAPE.
Sticky: I've been selling a lot of guitars lately.
Sticky: Refurbishing guitars is how I make a living.
Sticky: I mean it's a hobby.
And neither of them laughed. There wasn't even an awkward giggle or clearing of the throat. There wasn't even a fun discussion of that interesting Freudian slip. How sad.
I, of course, laughed so hard that I almost choked on my own tongue-- just as I would have if I had been the one who confused a living with a hobby in a room full of people who might frown upon that type of thing.
I think I know what Sticky's next book will be about.