My mother told me that I am descended from royalty. That I am a King.
“What country?” I asked, surprised.
“I can’t tell you. I’m sworn to secrecy.”
“Your loyal subjects,” she said. “They don’t want you to know until someone gets their driver’s license and can chauffeur you around.”
“No one has a driver’s license?” I asked, stunned.
“And they need a car.”
I awoke this morning wanting to be a photographer but didn’t know where to start. I asked friends for advice. It ranged from “get a good broom” to “carry a spare donut wherever you go.” I wanted more practical advice like, do I need a pen if I already have a pencil. One friend noticed I had matching shoes. He recommended, “Your shoes should never match.” In fact he said I should just paint my feet black. Someone mentioned a camera. “Every photographer has one.” I assumed he thought I should get one. “No. Don’t. When you get a job, walk around like you own the place, eat the food and then leave. When the client asks where are the photos? Cut pictures out of a magazine and send those. Works every time.”
I’m gonna love this job.
I wanted to be an artist. I wanted to recite poetry while dancing, painting and riding a bus but things didn’t go as planned. On one bus, I was strapped to a windshield wiper during a thunderstorm. On another, the driver tied me to the steering wheel using my head to steer the bus. Finally, the last bus went to the zoo and the passengers tossed me into the gorilla cage. The gorilla didn’t attack me until I started reciting my poetry. Maybe that’s the problem.