I had a nice surprise at my sister's, where I check in every Saturday and do the laundry. They had shrimp oreganata last night, thinking my great niece/godchild, Daniele, would gobble it up. She had only two, and I got the leftovers. Not only was it an unexpected feast, it saved me money. I would have opted for one of those tasty crispy chicken salads at McDonalds. So I was ahead of the game even before I opened up the floating bookshop. Business was a far cry from last Saturday's surprise, but it wasn't a shutout. Thanks to the woman who bought Mary Higgins Clarke's I Heard That Song Before, the bank employee who took Patricia Cornwell's Blow Fly, and the gentleman who purchased the lovely pictorial, Growing Up With Science, which focuses on invention.
I set up under the tree on Bay Parkway between 84th and 85th Street. I'm not nearly as tough as I used to be, just one of the changes I've undergone along the way. I was once able to stand in the sun for hours. I now will not do business where there isn't shade. I wear a hat and sunglasses, at which I used to scoff. How I hate wearing a hat! If I hear a siren approaching, I cover my ears, despite the looks it draws from some. When I get home I immediately douse my head and neck with cold water. I used to take a hot shower no matter what. I now take a cool one on hot days. I would inwardly scoff at people who carried bottled water. I now resort to it sometimes. I wouldn't leave the house unless I'd played the guitar for a half hour. I now eschew it when running late, with only mild guilt. "It doesn't matter," I tell myself, reducing my priorities to a few, chief of which are getting more of my work published and more sold. I wonder if I'll ever get to the point of giving up on that too, ceasing the insanity of the artist's life, which Bob Rubenstein once kindly described (rationalized?) as "a fine madness." Things change.
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