Brits
While working last night, a middle-aged British gentleman walks into the office seeking a campsite. Luck is on his side and we have one for him. He stands in front of me as I begin the registration process on the computer. Thin, spiked, blond hair recedes on his head. His brilliant blue eyes watch my every move. I ask him questions, none of which are related to the registration process. The red t-shirt he wears is splattered with paint, mostly cream and tan colors. The sleeves have been cut off from the shirt and this is understandable as the day had been over 100 degrees. He begins talking about painting and the overpowering opinions of people who know someone who works at Cornell. You get a lot of this in the Ithaca / Trumansburg area. I understand when he explains a woman's knowledge of painting a house was influenced by an interior designer's phd. "But my friend at Cornell says..." He was disgusted and told her to have her friend at Cornell paint the house. He said this over his shoulder as he walked out her front door. You don't need primer if your house has already been painted.
We begin talking about books. He sees my copy of Anna Karenina on the counter. "I've only read two books in my lifetime," he explains. Oddly enough, both books are Nicolas Sparks books. This cockneyed Brit doesn't seem like a connoisseur of melodramas. First impressions have been my weak spot this summer.
I ask him, "Why Nicolas Sparks?"
"I had a part in the movie, A Walk To Remember." Says handsome Brit. "I met Peter Coyote and Mandy Moore."
I assume he only had a tiny part. We keep talking. He tells me he wants to direct films. Says he is going to quit painting. "I've been doing it for twenty years. I have had enough. If I hear, 'I know someone who works at Cornell' again, I am going to punch someone. Things might get ugly."
I nod. "I know." I say, remembering why I moved out to the country, away from Ithaca.
"There is this class I can take for one year out in California, near San Diego. One year. If I fail, it's not like I went to school for four years or anything. I already did that in London. Studied interior design, and art, and I play the piano. Painted and sold over 150 paintings." As he says this, his eyes bore deeper into my soul.
"When are you going to do it?" I ask.
"End of the summer. Soon. I have had enough. Bloody idiots everywhere. But I can't write. You can write. I am more visual."
I wonder how he knows I can write...because I can read difficult books? "I'd bet you would be good at story boards though." I smile.
He nods, grin grows wider. "Sure. But I'd need someone to write the screenplay. I have no patience to write. I get frustrated."
I don't reply but my mind whirls. Could I write a screenplay and have this guy direct it? It's possible but right now I have to get him checked in to his campsite. "What's your name?" I ask. I need to know to get him registered.
Instead, "I met John Travolta. He has really tiny eyes and a big head. I was so nervous when I met him that I just poked him on the shoulder and said, 'who's that guy over there?' and he said, 'don't know.' and looked at me real funny like."
"He does have a big melon. But why so nervous? Celebrities are real people. They don't have super powers or anything like that."
"When I was a bit younger, in my twenties, I loved the movie Saturday Night Fever. Travolta set a new wave of fashion and dance through that movie."
"So he is sort of idolistic to you?"
"Well...sure, I suppose."
Some kids walk into the office looking for firewood and Carol comes up from the back office. She is done counting her drawer and I must leave the Brit. Don't want to but I must. He smiles at me and says,"we will chat later."
I doubt I will ever see him again. I help Carol sort through the 2000 dollars littered about the back room desk. She leaves and I help the kids get their wood. The office clears out and I am alone.
The silence in the office is eerie but it gives me time to reflect. I push the chair closer to the counter and am about to sit down. On the counter, next to a sign advertising park activities for the day, I notice a yellow lighter. It's the Brits. I look around the office. No one is there. I take the lighter, turn it over in my hands, flick it. The lighter works. I slide it into my pocket. Save it for a rainy day.
We begin talking about books. He sees my copy of Anna Karenina on the counter. "I've only read two books in my lifetime," he explains. Oddly enough, both books are Nicolas Sparks books. This cockneyed Brit doesn't seem like a connoisseur of melodramas. First impressions have been my weak spot this summer.
I ask him, "Why Nicolas Sparks?"
"I had a part in the movie, A Walk To Remember." Says handsome Brit. "I met Peter Coyote and Mandy Moore."
I assume he only had a tiny part. We keep talking. He tells me he wants to direct films. Says he is going to quit painting. "I've been doing it for twenty years. I have had enough. If I hear, 'I know someone who works at Cornell' again, I am going to punch someone. Things might get ugly."
I nod. "I know." I say, remembering why I moved out to the country, away from Ithaca.
"There is this class I can take for one year out in California, near San Diego. One year. If I fail, it's not like I went to school for four years or anything. I already did that in London. Studied interior design, and art, and I play the piano. Painted and sold over 150 paintings." As he says this, his eyes bore deeper into my soul.
"When are you going to do it?" I ask.
"End of the summer. Soon. I have had enough. Bloody idiots everywhere. But I can't write. You can write. I am more visual."
I wonder how he knows I can write...because I can read difficult books? "I'd bet you would be good at story boards though." I smile.
He nods, grin grows wider. "Sure. But I'd need someone to write the screenplay. I have no patience to write. I get frustrated."
I don't reply but my mind whirls. Could I write a screenplay and have this guy direct it? It's possible but right now I have to get him checked in to his campsite. "What's your name?" I ask. I need to know to get him registered.
Instead, "I met John Travolta. He has really tiny eyes and a big head. I was so nervous when I met him that I just poked him on the shoulder and said, 'who's that guy over there?' and he said, 'don't know.' and looked at me real funny like."
"He does have a big melon. But why so nervous? Celebrities are real people. They don't have super powers or anything like that."
"When I was a bit younger, in my twenties, I loved the movie Saturday Night Fever. Travolta set a new wave of fashion and dance through that movie."
"So he is sort of idolistic to you?"
"Well...sure, I suppose."
Some kids walk into the office looking for firewood and Carol comes up from the back office. She is done counting her drawer and I must leave the Brit. Don't want to but I must. He smiles at me and says,"we will chat later."
I doubt I will ever see him again. I help Carol sort through the 2000 dollars littered about the back room desk. She leaves and I help the kids get their wood. The office clears out and I am alone.
The silence in the office is eerie but it gives me time to reflect. I push the chair closer to the counter and am about to sit down. On the counter, next to a sign advertising park activities for the day, I notice a yellow lighter. It's the Brits. I look around the office. No one is there. I take the lighter, turn it over in my hands, flick it. The lighter works. I slide it into my pocket. Save it for a rainy day.