Part-time

I volunteer at an artist cooperative gallery two days a week. A friend of mine, Harriet, is an artist (among many other things) who shows at the co-op. As a kind of payment, she is supposed to be a salesperson at the gallery for 8 hours a week. She loathes the idea of selling and I have fun doing it, so I do it for her.

Today, a tough-looking guy came in, went straight over to a large painting, and paced in front of it. My co-worker (she might be my boss but we have never really discussed the hierarchy) poked me in the arm and told me to go help him. So I did. (She thought he was a thug.)

Maybe because of the way the guy was dressed. (It turns out, salespeople profile all the time.) He had on a black T-shirt but when he turned to face me I noticed that the shirt stopped at his navel. It was a cute navel. Not so tough, I thought. His hair was dark brown, curly, and crowned with a red baseball cap. Nothing written on it so no clues there. Tattoos covered every square inch of muscular arms but nowhere else, that I could see. His legs were covered with thick, baggy purple sweatpants.

"Do you like that painting?" I asked.

"I do," he said in a low baritone, almost as if he were making a confession.

"I can see by your tattoos that you are an art lover."

This made him smile with such a boyish expression that the idea he was a thug completely vanished from my mind. "I am," he said.

We sat down and he proceeded to tell me about his art collection, his eclectic taste in all things art, and his hope that one day he would quit his job and just collect and sell art. It turns out he is a lawyer, in his late twenties, and amazingly clear on how his life will play out. When I was in my twenties I was till floundering around looking for a point.

I took him over to see Harriet's work which he didn't like it at all. "A little too simple for my taste," he said. (I'll be keeping that comment to myself.) So back we went to the painting he liked.

"What's stopping you from buying it?" I asked.

"It's more than I usually spend."

Before I could stop myself, I said, "That's what credit cards are for."

He didn't turn toward me like you don't turn toward someone who just inadvertently farts. But I could tell he was more amused than offended. I apologized for the comment anyway.

Later tonight I'll have dinner with Harriet. I'll tell her about this guy and she'll ask me if he liked her work. I'll probably be vague without actually lying. To be honest, I'll probably wish I was having dinner with that nameless customer; finding out how a young person can be so confident and focused--two things I'm still struggling to find.