Vanessa and I are friends the way that peanut butter tastes better straight from the jar on a spoon — that is to say, discovered accidentally, enjoyed rarely and at random times, but indulgently. She’s another experimental theater gal, devoted to craft and quirk.
Last week she pulled her car over while I was walking my bike down Foster Ave. and said we should get dinner. I walked home, bought a bottle of whiskey at the grungey liquor store on the corner, and joined her on her porch at dusk. I hadn’t thought to bring a mixer, so we mixed it with whatever she had, which was lemon seltzer and ginger ale. And as we talked, it came to light that we both thought, at any moment, someone was going to come knocking at the door.
Someone in a uniform. Someone with a summons, printed on nice paper in a stiff, formal font (I’m picturing Courier New). KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
(Door opens) –Yes?
–I hereby serve you with this official summons to appear before the court and explain WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE.
I can see it all very plain, the man in the gray uniform with the cream-colored letter. When will someone knock down my door and ask me to justify how I’m about to turn 30, have saved exactly zero dollars, and want to spend my days making art.