In our early 20's, my cousin and
I became roommates. She was a waitress and I was a Space Planner for a major bank designing floor plans of their
offices. One Friday night she asked to go to a night club with her. Though I
refused several times, she talked me into going as her designated driver. I
never liked night clubs. I only met stupid boys there.
Once there, she
introduced me to her friend who I'll call "Night Club Guy." She asked me to tell NCG what I did for a living
(she being proud of what I did, though secretly I admired her large tip
earnings). "No, that's OK, it's not a big deal." I said.
"Come on." NCG urged,
"Just tell me."
"No, really, I don't want to." I
repeated. I could tell from his tussled hair and gas station uniform
he might not know what a Space Planner was, and I didn’t want to explain it to him.
"Just tell me. What's the big
deal? Are you afraid?" He raised his voice at me.
So I told him, "I'm a Space
Planner."
"Yeah, right." he laughed,
"Like in outer space?"
This space dude used to stand above my drafting table as a memorial of “night club guy’s” reply, which still makes me laugh. Finding him stowed away in a hat box I set him on the shelf above my art desk. Since it's tea time, he now has his own teacup.