Alyson

When Dad took me to his work in downtown San Diego, I had my camera in one hand and my phone in the other for navigation. I have this idea that if you look like you’re on a mission, no one will try to get in your way. No one sane, at least. Well, I guess that’s not too reassuring.

I am sure the college kids working at Blick Art Materials thought I was stealing. My overalls could be viewed as conspicuous, I suppose. On my final trip there, I bought four small oil pastels. All pink tones. As I did it, I thought about Barnaby Whitfield, my current fav artist.

I carried my oil pastels a mile or two back to the Coffee Bean by Civic Center. For once, I pulled out my sketchbook and tried to be a cool artist and draw some people I saw outside the window. I started down the trail of self-hate, because it all looked like my personal style of crap and it was twenty steps backwards from the art I’d been creating with paint. I suppose I shouldn’t be upset since I don’t use pastel often, but, of course, that wasn’t good enough an excuse for me.

“That’s really good!”

The words were similar to what everyone says, but the tone of voice was completely new. It wasn’t a mom trying to pad or some nice art hoe kid. She really thought it was good. OK then.

I was immediately indebted to her and her genuineness. She was a suit, like 80 percent of the city, but clothes were just clothes on her when she had those eyes and that voice to make people believe her with.

I thought that was it. The interaction was over and I could cool down.

But she said it again, and I panicked. I’m sitting here trying to remember the words that bridged that moment to the next—when she asked where I wanted to go to school. Oh yeah, she said that suits are all secretly jealous of artists and really need them to survive. I almost hated her, but then she said something amazing that I haven’t heard before, “Hey, you’re never going to see me again, so just tell me what you really want to do.”

And I did.

“Alyson, you just have a very trusting and kind aura. Believe me, I don’t talk to random strangers all the time.”

I walked down the street and didn’t have enough eye-energy to launch tears. Anyways, I had to find my dad. ♦